


The Fate of Ghosts

by iwtv



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 11:53:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3691275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwtv/pseuds/iwtv





	The Fate of Ghosts

The Fate of Ghosts  
A Black Sails tie-in  
Note: Story takes place in early season 2, with knowledge of Captain Flint’s history in London and imagines if Thomas Hamilton did not die in the royal hospital.

London  
1705

 

James McGraw rushed into the room. “Where's Thomas?” he demanded.  
Lord Ashe answered him. “They came. The earl's men. It happened quickly before I could do anything to stop it.”  
“They took him,” said Miranda, sitting down with tears streaking her face.  
James didn’t understand. “Took him? Took him where?”  
“Bethlem Royal Hospital,” she answered, voice as strong as she could make it. “He is to be committed there, owing to his uncontrollable grief over having learned of my affair with you.”  
“Our affair?”  
“That is what the story will be. I have been given until nightfall to vacate this house. And then you and I are to disappear.”  
Lord Ashe stepped up. “I have friends in Amsterdam, Paris, Brussels. I can get you set up comfortably. Perhaps at some point, I can figure out a way to get you back here.”  
“I'm not leaving,” replied James firmly. Miranda searched his face.  
“James...” she started.  
We're going to get him out of there,” he continued, standing rigidly and looking at neither of them.  
“We can't,” said Miranda, on the verge of crying again.  
“You watch me.,” he shot back, emotion overriding his senses.  
“You think you're angry about this?” she demanded.  
“I'm beyond that,” he answered, voice barely above a whisper. Miranda shot out of her seat.  
“I am enraged! He is my husband. Before they took him away, he made me promise him that no matter what happened next, that you and I would take care of each other.”  
“The danger here is real,” added Lord Ashe, voice filled with caution.  
“Thomas is gone,” Miranda continued, eyes pleading with James to hear her. “And now you and I must leave this place.”  
“We need to get you moving,” said Lord Ashe. “When we get to the harbor, I'll arrange passage for you. Anything you need that you don't have, I'll see sent to you. In the meantime, my friends will ensure that you're taken care of.”  
“We won't be with your friends,” said James in a flat and cold tone. As he embraced Miranda, his eyes filled with determination. “We're not going to Paris. Or Brussels or Amsterdam.”

 

..not to feel exasperated or defeated or despondent because your days aren't packed with wise and moral actions. But to get back up when you fail, to celebrate behaving like a human—however imperfectly—and fully embrace the pursuit you've embarked on.  
\--Marcus Aurelius

 

 

I.  
Province of Carolina  
1715

When Captain James Flint closed his eyes, he could see a pair of bright blue ones staring back at him. They tormented him most nights, those eyes, along with all the other demons that burrowed themselves within him. The same demons Miranda had all too eagerly reminded him of recently.  
James opened his eyes and turned to see Miranda sleeping soundly beside him on the cramped mattress on the inn floor. It was the middle of the night in the Carolina Colonies and all seemed peaceful, though Flint’s trained ear heard the sound of the sea just a short distance from the window. The coast line was smooth here, with just a few rocky outcroppings dotted here and there, causing the waves to crash gently. Flint rose from the mattress and left the room, not bothering to put on his white undershirt. He descended the narrow wooden stairs carefully and made his way down to the small beach across from the inn. He took a deep breath, glad to be away from Miranda yet hating himself for the thought. He still loved her, but more and more Miranda Barlow reminded him of his own shortcomings and weaknesses.  
His crewmate Billy Bones had been the one to find out about his past affair with her, though his deductions were only a tiny part of the whole truth. Yes, Flint had an affair with a married woman. Yes, her husband Thomas Hamilton had known about it. That was the extent of Billy’s knowledge. The truth went deeper than that. Yes, something had come between he and Mrs. Barlow as well—Thomas.  
Flint closed his eyes to the dark outline of where sea met sky and saw those blue eyes again, looking into his grayish green ones unabashed and filled with warmth as they had been the last day he and Thomas had been together. Flint had smiled as Thomas rested his forehead against Flint’s own, the two of them safely tucked away in his bed chamber while the bustling world of Queen Anne’s London remained outside, unaware. Nothing else had mattered then. Flint thought they could be happy.  
He opened his eyes but the images stuck with him. He remembered Thomas’s kiss, the smell of shaving cream, the feel of Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations in his hands as they took turns reading from it surrounded by sheets and the finest down-filled pillows.  
Flint gritted his teeth together. His nails dug into his palms as the pain of what was lost throbbed in his heart. And now, just five miles away was Stonehenge Asylum where Thomas had been transferred to. He was so close to Flint that the navy officer turned pirate captain almost couldn’t bear it. The ocean breeze grew stronger and wiped the tears out of his eyes. The self-loathing crept back to him as the barest hint of light touched the horizon. He had done terrible things to get what he had wanted; to get here, in the Americas, so far from home. Flint hadn’t allowed himself to feel for Billy when he had fallen overboard that fateful night nor to feel for his now deceased quartermaster Mr. Gates after he had been forced to kill the man. He couldn’t let himself feel. Life away from civilization had turned him into a new kind of monster. A pirate captain with an immense secret did not have time for others. Selfish. Thomas would be ashamed.  
Know no shame was what Thomas had written to Flint in Aurelius’s book Meditations. It was meant as something to live by, a reminder that society’s rules didn’t apply to them because they were in love. Only now Flint did feel shame, felt sullied by it so deeply that no amount of sea water could wash it away. Tomorrow. That would be the day. If Thomas wound up hating him for his actions then so be it. But Flint had to see him. He had to free him from that place, no matter the cost. He gave a hard look at the horizon again and whispered, “I’m coming Thomas.”

Abigail Ashe, daughter of Lord Peter Ashe, awoke inside the belly of the great ship—the Seahawk, she believed it was called—to darkness, though a small hole in the hull told her that morning had arrived. She had a straw mat and they had been giving her fresh food and water, a change from the treatment she had been receiving from the dreadful-looking Captain Vane in Nassau. She knew she was still being held for ransom, although the man and woman who held her seemed to have the most unusual ideas about how she should be used. She had caught snippets of their conversations and had deduced—over the long voyage to the Americas from New Providence Island—that they disagreed on how to get her father’s attention. Abigail had finally been able to put her fear behind her long enough to realize that the couple didn’t simply want money but instead seemed to be out to acquire a person instead. She had initially assumed it to be one of the pirate captain’s crewmates, no doubt to be hung at the gallows by her father, but it occurred to her at some point that the lack of the pirate’s crew joining them and the involvement of the woman Miranda made this plot unlikely. Abigail’s thoughts were cut short when the door leading to her room below deck was opened. Her heart skipped a beat out of sudden fear but she quickly calmed herself, no longer expecting the rough treatment her previous captors had laid on her. She was even more relieved when it was the woman Miranda and not her more intimidating and angry companion coming to visit her.  
Miranda carefully juggled the pitcher of water and bowl of soup as she descended the short stairs below deck. Abigail was huddled on top of her straw mat, though she looked more confident now than when they had first taken her on board. Miranda had cleaned her up, offered her fresh clothes and assured her that no harm would come to her. Though Miranda knew the younger girl still didn’t trust her, she was nonetheless appreciative of Miranda’s kindness.  
“The soup is from the inn. Not as tasteful as my own, I’m afraid, but the potatoes are fresh.” Miranda sat the pitcher and bowl down on a small table beside the straw mat, taking a stool for herself. Abigail rose slowly and sat down on a second stool across from her, taking the soup and spoon and eating it as dignified as she could. Miranda waited patiently, pouring the water into a washed-out mug that belonged to Flint’s crew. Her eyes flitted around the small and dank room.  
“I wish he’d let me move you above deck, in his quarters but he’s afraid you’ll try to take something of value,” Miranda said as the girl finished the soup.  
“I’ll just be grateful to be out of his hell altogether,” Abigail replied. She nodded at the empty bowl and mug. “Thank you.”  
Miranda gave a taut smile and nodded. “It won’t be much longer now. Hopefully in the next day or two you’ll be reunited with your father.”  
“You really think my father will let the two of you go?”  
The question popped out of Abigail’s mouth before she could stop herself. Miranda gave her a hard look, a frown replacing the smile.  
“I’m…I’m sorry,” Abigail stuttered. “I didn’t mean—“  
“No. It’s fine. You have every right to be angry. If I were in your position, I daresay I wouldn’t be as docile. Captain Flint and I are well prepared for this to work, I assure you.”  
Abigail said nothing. Miranda cleared her throat and rose to leave. “Well, I’ll check back around noontime. Perhaps I can find some meat…”  
“Wait.”  
Abigail’s fingers brushed against Miranda’s dress, causing her to pause. Abigail quickly returned her hand to her lap but met Miranda’s gaze evenly.  
“If I never understand any of this, it will haunt me never knowing why…why the two of you are doing this. I know it’s for something other than currency. Can’t you at least tell me, even vaguely, why I have suffered so?”  
Her words pained Miranda’s heart and she thought about Peter Ashe. They had been friends once. Peter had believed in her husband Thomas, in his plan for Nassau when no one else had, save for James. His daughter deserved to know some parts of the puzzle.  
“A close friend of mine and Captain Flint’s is in a kind of danger here. We wish to save him. He’s a very dear friend, understand. That is why you have suffered so. I can’t tell you anymore.”  
Miranda left the ship and climbed back into the longboat with a heavy heart. When she reached the room at the inn she found James with a large piece of parchment laid out on the table. He was scrutinizing it closely. A lock of his long reddish hair that had escaped its hair tie followed his movements. He motioned for her to shut the door behind her. Miranda looked at the paper.  
“Is that the asylum layout?”  
“Yes. It looks like the easiest way in is going to be from underneath. Through the sewers and into this section here in the courtyard.”  
He looked up at her. “I need you to take this over to a Mr. Jacobs at the tavern.”  
He pulled a bag of coins from his long coat and handed them to her. “It’s the second half of his payment. If he doesn’t get it soon he’ll come looking.”  
Miranda weighed the bag in her palm and said dryly, “I suppose I should look for the most suspicious, dirtiest man there at this time of day?”  
Flint frowned. “He’ll find you. Please hurry.”  
The tension and stress in his voice radiated like a wave towards her. Despite herself Miranda didn’t move at first.  
“If you get caught doing this, Peter will hang you on the spot. We need to appeal to him together—“  
“We are,” Flint interrupted impatiently. “I told you we would. But he’s going to be furious with me especially and when he refuses to release Thomas, you are going to see him again, alone, while I break in.”  
“You told Ms. Guthrie that this would work,” she objected. “That you could negotiate with him, and I believed you. Must you always lie now?”  
“Stop it!” Flint hissed the words at her, his face suddenly inches from hers. “Stop trying to appeal to my better conscious, to save my soul. I have to stay two steps ahead, to always have another plan in place or otherwise I’d already be dead. That life is over, Miranda. The only person that can save me now is locked up in a hell hole five miles away if he’s even still alive!”  
Tears stung Miranda’s eyes but she held them at bay. “Why do you hate me so?”  
Flint’s gaze softened, his chest deflating. “I don’t hate you.”  
He raised a thumb to her cheek and stroked it, his eyes lingering there for a second before turning back to the parchment. Miranda felt the truth of the words, though she knew he was unwilling to admit what they both were beginning to realize—that they no longer fit into each other’s lives.  
“Go to the tavern,” he said. “I’ll be ready to go by the time you return.”

Miranda visited Mr. Jacobs with his remaining coinage and then Abigail again at noon as promised, offering the girl some fish this time and once again reassuring her that everything would turn out well for her. She seemed less than convinced still but smiled and nodded anyway. Now the time was upon them to meet with Lord Ashe.  
She and Flint traveled on horseback through the winding, dirt path that led away from the small seaside town. They had made it halfway to the location of Ashe’s estate when a group of four men also on horseback and travelling in the opposite direction approached them. They were all dressed in the same yellow uniforms, well made, yet they lacked wigs and all had swords at their side. He motioned for Miranda to stay back, maneuvering in front of her. The group surrounded them but made no sudden moves. Flint waited. The man directly in front of Flint spoke.  
“We mean you no harm. We are the personal guard of his Lordship Peter Ashe and we’ve been instructed to guide you the rest of the way to his property.”  
The man who made the introduction was regarding Flint and Miranda with a wary gaze. Flint eyed each one of them, weighing his options. Finally he returned his gaze to the man before him.  
“Guide us?”  
He let the question linger by itself in the air, letting them know that he was as on guard as they were. The man only nodded. Flint returned the nod, glancing back at Miranda. She gave him a small nod of her own and they started down the road again.  
Flint took note of the journey and the small shifts in direction the dirt road took, noting the sandy ground despite the growth of grass and numerous outcroppings of reddish, spindle-thin pine trees everywhere. Occasionally there were lone food vendors pushing their wares alongside the road, but otherwise they encountered little traffic until they reached their destination.  
As they topped a small hill the trees gave way to several large fields, where Flint immediately recognized sugar cane and tobacco. A half dozen or so field hands worked the land, backs bent over in labor. It was a familiar scene everywhere, but the white-columned mansion that lay beyond the fields jolted Flint’s memory. He, Thomas, and Miranda had all dined here once before as Lord Ashe’s guests. The scene today, he knew, would not be the same.  
As they approached more guards dotted the area, now dressed in royal red and carrying bayonets at their sides. Their numbers were especially heavy before the archway leading up to the mansion proper, and Flint knew there was no way they would even be allowed close to the house. The leading guard travelling with him abruptly stopped the party. As soon as he did so the guards on foot immediately spread out and surrounded Flint and Miranda. Flint calculated as many as twenty of them, probably Ashe’s entire guard.  
“Dismount and don’t move,” the main guard instructed them. The two carefully obeyed the orders. Flint felt Miranda’s tight grip on his arm.  
“Don’t get angry,” she whispered. “If you lose your temper here, we’re certain to lose any chance we might have.”  
Flint didn’t speak but instead placed his hand over her own while they waited. They need to look united, he knew. Peter was the only other person who had known what had been going on in the Hamilton household even if they had never discussed it with him. He had tried to keep Thomas from getting dragged away to the royal hospital, had helped Flint and Miranda disappear from London. Despite himself Flint did indeed feel a tiny spark of hope that his old friend might still retain some sympathy towards him.  
The sound of thundering hooves broke up his reverie. Flint snapped to attention as the guards broke formation to let the newcomer through. Lord Ashe rode into the circle flanked by two hardy-looking slaves, also on horseback. He looked much the same as he had the last time Flint had laid eyes on him, though perhaps with a few more wrinkles under his eyes. He still favored green and sported a dark green jacket and breeches. His eyes landed on Flint first, then Miranda. Flint lowered his head.  
“Lord Ashe. Thank you for seeing us.”  
Peter looked him over, the mask over his face lifting and turning to surprise, perhaps even shock. “My God,” he muttered.  
Flint hadn’t thought about his appearance much the last ten years. He tried to imagine it from Peter’s perspective. He’d cut his hair so it was no longer in a gentlemanly ponytail, his moustache and beard had remained, his fashionable London coat replaced by the dark leather pirate coat, thick buckled belt slung over his shirt, gold earring in his right ear. And, of course, the cutlass sword at this waist. One of the guards moved towards Flint.  
“Sir, allow me to unarm him—“  
Peter held up a hand. “No. That’s not necessary. Yet. Is it true, James?” It came out much softer than what Flint had expected and spoke of the ghost of the friendship between them years before. Flint responded accordingly. Miranda’s grip on him tightened.  
“I have your daughter, Abigail with me, yes. She is unharmed, I can assure you. We’ve fed her, clothed her.”  
Flint paused, expecting an angry outburst from Lord Ashe at any moment, but Peter remained silent. Flint continued. “No one has taken advantage of her, either. I managed to rescue her from much more brutal hands.”  
That seemed to affect Peter, whose face grew angry now. He looked away quickly, seeming to lose composure, before turning back.  
“And now, being a pirate and all, I suppose you want to exchange my daughter for goods and services,” he said coldly. Flint took a step forward. The motion resulted in the guards doing the same. Peter held up a hand again. Flint met his gaze.  
“Not exactly, Lord Ashe. You see, even as a pirate, I would never demand such a thing from you. I’ve not become that low, weather you believe me or not. But there is one thing I would do this for, one person I would go to this length for.”  
Flint paused again. Now Peter was regarding him intensely. Flint felt the blood rush to face, wishing suddenly that it was just the two of them in a room together and not surrounded by so many strangers. To his luck Peter finally dismounted his horse amidst cries from the two slaves flanking him. He hushed them and approached Flint and Miranda, who finally released her grip on Flint’s arm and stood by his side. Peter spoke confidentially to them.  
“I could be tried and hanged just for speaking with you, you know that.”  
Flint nodded. Peter turned his gaze to Miranda and managed a smile.  
“Still as beautiful as ever, Mrs. Hamilton.”  
“No one’s called me that in quite some time, Peter.”  
Peter watched her exchange a look with Flint, his brows furrowing as he tried to understand the whole of the situation. Flint opened his mouth to continue when Peter gave a cry.  
“You couldn’t possibly be here for him. He’s locked away at Stonehenge…you know that, don’t you? Dear God. You’re mad.”  
“Peter, please—“  
“No, I won’t hear this. I can’t hear this.” Peter closed his eyes, grimacing.  
Flint felt desperate. If only he could get this to work.  
“Peter, listen to me. I know it sounds mad. But you’ve got the strongest connections to that place, you could assert your authority, convince them to release him. Tell them that he’s going to another asylum even, does it really matter? You could do it, Peter. Pull the right strings. Please.”  
Flint let the hint of desperation color his voice. Peter looked at him, eyes pained.  
“I tried. I tried to stop them from taking him away, you know. I did everything I could then but it wasn’t enough.”  
“I know…”  
Flint moved to comfort his old friend but Peter jerked his arm away. His voice turned hard again.  
“Just like I tried to convince you—the both of you—not to go to Nassau. Now look at you. Look at what you’ve become.”  
Miranda stepped forward. “We’ve done what we had to do to survive, you must understand, Peter. James has done what he had to do. You must know that we still fight for Thomas’s dream. That we still want a self-governing Nassau. A pardon for those who deserve one. Can’t you pardon us now?”  
“Stop! Just stop. And if I say no? What will you do with my Abigail then? Torture her? Sell her to some other pirates? That is the deal here, isn’t it? I don’t see my daughter unless I agree to your bloody terms?”  
Flint felt his anger rising. He gritted his teeth, taking a step forward.  
“Damnit, Peter, it’s me…”  
Peter held his palm out to Flint as a warning. Flint felt the pricks of bayonets at this back. He heard Miranda gasp. The look in Peter’s eyes was resolute. Flint’s heart sank.  
“I said no. Thomas is as good as gone. Let him spend the rest of his days in peace. You will give me my daughter, unharmed, or I will find her and take her from you. I suggest you’re not around when that happens, old friend.”  
Peter whirled around and mounted his horse, ordering the guard to fall in behind him. One by one they strode past the couple. Flint didn’t dare move until the last of them was gone. Beside him Miranda broke into sobs, though when he looked at her he saw her anger.  
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

Thomas Hamilton sat on the small bed in the corner of the room, reading from a red leather book while his roommates pissed into another corner of the room trying to see which one could reach the low mounted painting of a waterfall on the wall. They were a one Mr. Earl Todds and Mr. John Hemsworth, both committed on the same day for “social disease.” Thomas knew that simply meant they had behaved inappropriately at the wrong time and place. John at least also had a mental condition which had only deteriorated since they had arrived as Thomas’s bunk mates two years ago.  
The two of them yelped and whooped, attracting a small crowd of other members of the asylum. They placed bets of food stuffs and soap to see which man could reach the furthest up the wall. Earl and John might have lost their wits, but not completely. Thomas noted as the guards finally caught on to the game and shoved everyone else out of the room. While they did so Earl quickly and expertly slipped one of the guards’ daggers out of his pocket. Thomas had seen him do it before, though there was no intention on hurting the guards or trying to escape. Instead his two roommates were using such things as tools to create their own artwork on planks and whatever else they could get their hands on.  
Thomas barely glanced up throughout all of it, save to make sure none of the attention was finding its way into his corner of the world. The only thing that startled him from his words was the sudden and harsh impact of a book thrown at his face. One of the women—Ms. White, who suffered from an eating disorder and fits of depression—leered at him from the doorway. Thomas glared at her as he rose from his bed.  
“Hey rich boy,” she sang out in a thick southern accent. “You got any fruit for me today? How ‘bout some fresh pork like your fancy friend sent here last time?”  
Thomas shut the door in her face. Earl and John had calmed down and watched him as he returned to his bed. They were using the newly-acquired dagger as well as a garden shovel and piece of rock to carve drawings into a flat wooden plank.  
“You ought to wallop her in the head with somethin’” said John. “Maybe an encyclopedia.” He and Earl let loose a series of giggles. Thomas sighed. “Why don’t you add it in to your drawings?”  
The idea lit up their faces and they went to work on it. Thomas made himself comfortable again and read until it was lights out. Ms. White was only one of many who made fun of his books, of him. He was the misfit among misfits. Peter Ashe had paid for his rations of food since the beginning, a privilege that was uncommon for the other, lesser fortunate patients at Stonehenge who had to rely on the unstable amount of food and water the asylum’s budget could provide. Some of them were mildly jealous towards him, while others, he had learned, absolutely hated him.  
To add more grief to his situation they couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him other than his grief. Thomas could still remember the exact words spoken to him that day he had been admitted back in London: ‘Due to Mr. Hamilton’s inability to control his grief because of his wife’s unfortunate affair’ he was to be a ward of the state until further notice. The last part meant indefinitely but really it meant forever. No one was ever allowed back out once society had deemed them a lunatic. That had all happened in London. However the Bethlam Royal Hospital was plagued with overcrowding and it was deemed that Thomas and other patients were to be sent to a newer, less populated asylum over in the colonies.  
Thomas had made matters worse, too. Now as he lay in the dark, smelling piss and rotten food, he pulled back the sleeve of his shirt and traced the cuts on the inside of his arm. Some were white scars while others were still red. He’d wanted to die, there was no question. Everything had been ripped from him, and ripped from him by his own father who now disowned him. His title, his property, his wife, his friends were all gone. James was gone.  
He had made up his mind one day to quit beating around the bush with the cuts and just hang himself, but his roommates had figured out his ploy and informed the guards, who had removed all forms of rope, string, bed sheets and anything else that might be fashioned into a noose from the entire first floor. That was five years ago. Since then Thomas lived in what he decided was a kind of purgatory. Some days it was pure hell but after ten years he’d gotten used to the lunatics and his own deplorable state of being. It was tolerable. It wasn’t living, but he was alive. And he lived it only because he constantly reminded himself of the one unshakable truth in his life, that he was not one of them.  
Thomas finally slept and when he woke the next morning one of the guards told him he had correspondence. The idea of someone sending him a letter was so foreign to him and impossible that he didn’t at first believe it. He was taken down the main corridor of the asylum and into an office. The man who waited for him was not a currier, however. He was a lean, younger man, dressed plainly. He looked pale and fragile to Thomas, yet when Thomas met his gaze the young man was suddenly very strong. He handed Thomas a blank envelope, the red seal on it unfamiliar to him.  
“Do not show it to anyone,” the man said in a low voice. “I was to deliver this to you with the utmost urgency and to tell you to be prepared. That is all.”  
The man nodded at Thomas, who stared after him in growing bafflement as the man turned and walked out the office and down the corridor towards the entrance.  
When Thomas was alone in the courtyard after breakfast he opened the envelope to find a single sheet of paper that he had written on. It had been ripped from Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations:  
James,  
My truest love.  
Know no shame.  
T.H.  
Thomas clenched the paper, almost wadded it up, then pressed it out again, his breath caught in his throat. Tears rose in his eyes. His breath finally came to him.

 

Flint stood under the wooden swaying sign to the Redfish Tavern, looking around the deck area and bar for his hired crew members. He spotted the burly, red-skinned Mr. Donner in the middle of the bar, chewing on a loaf of bread. The two men nodded at one another as Flint sat down beside him.  
“Wind is picking up,” said Donner in-between mouthfuls. “From the east. Probably a spring storm.”  
Flint looked out towards the horizon and nodded. “If it gets here tonight, have the men ready to set sail by dawn. You’ll be paid once we’re underway and out to sea.”  
Donner’s eyes flicked up to Flint’s face. “That’s not a very specific timeframe. That means more risk for my men. And more coin.”  
“I know. I’m working on it. My friend Ms. Barlow will inform you of a more specific time. That’s less risk. The amount we agreed upon stays the same.”  
“And if it doesn’t rain?”  
Flint sighed. “As I said, I can pay you and your men everyday it doesn’t for a week. After that, I go through with my plan regardless. But like you said, looks like a spring storm.”  
Flint gave Donner a pat on the back as he rose. Donner sank back down in his stool and took another chunk of bread into his mouth. A few of the other hired hands were also at the Redfish; Flint greeted them briefly before returning to the inn. Yes, the breeze he had felt pick up a few nights ago was more than likely the harbinger of rain moving through. The rain was important.  
In their room once more Miranda pointed to the parchment containing the layout of Stonehenge Asylum as she handed Flint his freshly washed head wrap and scarf. He caught the fresh scent.  
“Any way you could keep it smelling like this? I’ll need all the good scents I can get down there.”  
“Show me again where you’re going.”  
Flint grabbed and turned the paper, pointing to the outline of the single sewer that ran underneath the asylum, tracing it with a finger until the trail ended in the building’s courtyard lawn, where the only drain for the whole building resided.  
“And this drain is for everything?” Miranda asked, unable to hide the look of disgust from her face.  
“I told you. It’s the only feasible way in without being seen. If I go in as a visitor they’ll have a better chance of stopping us before I can get us grappled over the wall.”  
She sighed and pulled a vial out of her apron pocket.  
“Here. Drink this before you go underground. It will keep at least some of the nausea at bay.”  
Flint took the glass vial from her, holding it up to the light between index finger and thumb. “What is it?”  
“A mixture of herbs that will numb your senses.”  
“No. I’ll need all my senses with me.”  
“Its effects are only temporary. By the time you make it to the drain it will have worn off.”  
Flint frowned at her. She looked at him with a pair of large brown eyes, willing him to agree to it. He nodded, pocketing the vial. Miranda then changed the subject, unwilling to let her imagination run with exactly what it was James would be crawling through for as long as half an hour before reaching fresh air again. She asked him about the weather.  
“Does Mr. Donner also favor the winds as bringing a storm?”  
“He does. Most likely it will be here sometime this evening, which means we won’t have to keep shelling out currency to him and his men before the return trip.”  
Miranda gave a wan smile. “Good. Well I’ll start supper.” She rose and walked over to the large kettle pot by the small fireplace but stopped halfway there, shoulders sagging. Flint was rolling up the parchment paper when he glanced up at her.  
“What is it?”  
Miranda spun around and grabbed him, kissing him hard on the mouth, her tongue forcing its way inside his mouth. Flint pulled back and looked at her, bewildered.  
“Miranda—“  
Miranda clasped his cheeks between her palms, her gaze penetrating.  
“I fear I’ll never see you again. You, Thomas, myself…the risk in this is insane.”  
“Miranda, I don’t think—“  
“You think too much.”  
She kissed him again, hands caressing his neck, shoulders, then moving lower. Flint was about to pull away again until he felt his own passions begin to rise. He let her unbutton his trousers and guide him to the bed. Then he pushed her down, raising her skirt up. They touched and felt each other and Flint felt a renewed wanting for her that he had not known in years. When he came inside her it was long and slow and filled with memories both joyful and painful. Miranda grasped his red-brown hair, pulling him down to her as her own body spasmed moments after his.  
Later that evening, as the stars became clear pinpricks in the sky, rumbles of thunder echoed down the coast line.

Miranda made her way back from the ship, carrying the now empty bowl and pitcher clasped together in one hand and a lantern in the other. She quickened her steps as the storm blew in, the thunder and lightning nearly overhead. She had partaken in the meal with Abigail Ashe as a sign of good will, telling her how her father had appeared during their meeting. Miranda left out the details of their conversation, of course, but said that Lord Ashe was healthy and eager to have his daughter returned. Now, as Miranda climbed the stairs off the beach, she was startled by three men hurrying towards her with purpose. In the near dark she at first thought the worst, but one of them also carried a lantern, and she recognized it to be Mr. Donner and two of his men.  
“Ms. Barlow,” Donner said in his gruff voice. “Lord Ashe has sent out a search party into the town to find you and the captain. We must get you somewhere hidden right away.”  
Miranda’s heart skipped a beat. Even as Donner spoke she looked up to see an unusual number of lanterns and torches moving around the inn. Suddenly she froze. She grabbed Donner’s arm.  
“The layout to the asylum! It’s in the room at the inn. We can’t take the chance that they might find it.”  
Donner turned to the other two men, who appeared ready to act. “Go to the inn and take the layout. Be silent.”  
The men nodded with a word, though Miranda could tell they were both competent and loyal to Mr. Donner despite not being a proper pirate crew but instead for-hire privateers, loyal to no empire. As the two of them hurried towards the inn Donner lead Miranda around the edge of town until they reached its westernmost end. The coastline rose up into much more rocky terrain not far away. Donner led her over a few outcroppings until both their lanterns shone into the blackness of a small cavern, perhaps ten feet wide and about as deep.  
“Dim your lantern and stay here,” he commanded. Miranda nodded, seeing no reason to argue as more torches came bobbing down the road. Miranda squinted, dimly able to make out the familiar uniforms of Lord Ashe’s personal guard. She closed her eyes and prayed. Donner interrupted her softly, standing just in front of the cavern’s entrance.  
“Captain Flint, did he make it to the asylum?”  
Miranda opened her eyes and swallowed as the first raindrops hit the ground. “Let us pray, Mr. Donner, that he has.”

 

When the skies finally opened Flint stood before the drain hole that fed the creek roughly two hundred yards away from Stonehenge Asylum. No other buildings surrounded the large piece of property, save for an outhouse on the left of the asylum and what Flint assumed to be some type of storage shed on the right. Flint had to stand on the end of his toes to see either; the creek was a good six foot drop from the rest of the expansive and well-manicured lawn of the asylum, though the drain hole was right where it was supposed to be, giving Flint hope.  
The rain was coming down steady as he took the vial Miranda had given him from his pocket and downed its contents. He had initially made up his mind to forget about it, but as soon as he’d found the sewer entrance the smell coming from it compelled him to change his mind. Now he wrapped the dark head band around his head, Muslim-style, and over his nose and mouth. The bitter contents of the vial left a tingling sensation down the back of his throat which, after another minute or two, became numb. The feeling crept to his head. Flint took a few deep breaths of fresh air before getting down on his knees in the creek and entering the sewer. He had to move as quickly as possible. If the rainfall became heavy and he took too much time he could drown.  
The stone pipe around him was just big enough for him to crawl comfortably in, the water and sludge immediately soaking through his pants and coat. Almost as soon as he started to move he nearly gagged, his body stirring up whatever it was that was stagnating under him. He could feel Miranda’s concoction making him light headed, but even it wasn’t enough to completely ward off the effects of the stench rising as he crawled through the pipe. He tried pressing the cloth closer over his nose but then felt suffocated. Flint gritted his teeth and forced his body to go forward. Coughing fits seized him every few feet. At some point he knew he had vomited up whatever remained of the herbs from his stomach, though he suspected that was the only thing keeping him from passing out. Thomas was so close now, so close.  
I’m coming Thomas, I’m coming. He repeated the words in his head over and over again until he wasn’t sure he was speaking them out loud or not. The water around him was rising in the small crawlspace, rushing over his elbows and splashing his face. It was frigid and noxious but seemed to be washing away at least some of the filth he was crawling through because Flint stopped retching as frequently. His stomach seemed to burn now; his leg muscles began to cramp up. Desperately he wanted to stand. He paused long enough to reach into the small pack slung over his back and to pull out a lantern. He turned it on and threw it as best he could. It landed perhaps fifty feet away, revealing nothing ahead but more filth and water. Flint caught his breath while the cramp in his leg died away, then pushed himself forward once more.

 

Thomas spent longer than usual eating in the mess hall. His weekly rations from Lord Ashe had run out, and for an unknown reason he hadn’t received any more money. Now he forced himself to eat the moldy bread and cheese from the plate before him, grateful that it was fresher than much of the food the asylum provided. He could feel the eyes of the other patients on him, watching him as he tried not to look pained as he choked down what most them dealt with every day. It was only a matter of time.  
A very short matter of time, as it turned out. As Thomas rose to leave he was blocked by the hulking brute form of Maximilien, a Frenchman committed to the asylum for his violent sexual appetites. Thomas felt the sweat break out over his forehead. Maximilien leered at him, crossing his arms but letting Thomas slowly slide around him. Max followed him.  
“You got some place to be, Tom?” Max asked, voice mocking in accented French. “I thought we could spend more time together in private. It didn’t work out right last time, remember? You stabbed me with a fork. Hey!”  
Max grabbed Thomas’s arm and spun him around like a top, bare arm muscles bulging. Thomas felt the fury rise in him, both at this brutish creature and his own fear.  
“You were trying to rape me, you bastard. Now unhand me before the guards notice.”  
Max leered at him again, undaunted by his courage. “They don’t give a shit. None of the ones in here right now. Come on, let’s have a bit of fun in my bed chamber, shall we?”  
Thomas looked desperately to the guards who were stationed at the doorway to the mess hall. Max was right. None of the faces that saw his were of men with any sense of justice. They found his predicament amusing, if anything. Thomas jerked away from Max’s grip, but Max politely pushed him towards the doorway just the same. Thomas swallowed as they left the mess hall, the sweat all over his body now. He clenched his jaw together, wishing he were dead. Why did he have to be so weak? He wanted nothing more than to be strong, to be something other than the socialite and political animal his father had raised him to be. Those qualities were curses in this place.  
As they neared Max’s room Thomas shoved his elbow hard into Max’s stomach which felt like hitting a brick wall. He jabbed at Max again, eliciting a sound of pain from the hulking figure but little more. Max grabbed him by both arms and shoved him through the doorway. Thomas grappled in the entrance, trying to break free. The struggle seemed to only encourage the Frenchman, who laughed and punched Thomas in his side, hard enough to double him over. Pain racked Thomas’s ribs. He let it wash over him, welcomed it and began to laugh. Why couldn’t he be strong? James had been so strong. As a seaman his body was built for labor, for pulling on ropes, tying knots, fighting off pirates. Max was saying something to him, kicking him and telling him to get up, that he liked his prizes moving. Thomas kept laughing. He curled up into a ball when he saw that his reaction was irritating the other man.  
“Fuck’s the matter with you?” Max roared, picking him up off the floor and throwing him onto the bed, slamming the door shut behind him.  
Thomas curled up again, uncontrollable fits of laughter bubbling up and over the blood he tasted on his lips.  
“Perhaps this is my salvation,” he said. “Perhaps I just need to lose my mind to stay sane.”  
How ironic, Thomas thought, laughing again even though his ribs were screaming at him to be still. Max grabbed each of his arms with his powerful hands, pinning them over Thomas’s head. He held them there with one hand while his other fumbled with Thomas’s breeches. Fury once again welled up inside Thomas. How could it end like this? He’d survived for ten years, only to have this happen to him. Shameful.  
He lashed out, arched his back and struggled for all his puny body was worth. His ribs screamed again. He was close to passing out. Finally he stopped when Max slapped him across the face. More blood in his mouth. Salty. Vaguely Thomas wondered why blood didn’t also smell salty, like the salt of the sea air, the way James had smelled. He waited now, waiting for Max to do his disgusting deed and get it over with, praying that the blurriness in the edge of his vision would overtake him soon.  
Suddenly it stopped. His breeches were still secured. It took him another moment to realize his arms were free; no one was holding him down. Thomas raised his head in time to see a sword sticking through Maximilien’s chest, crimson radiating outward over his white shirt and coating the blade. Max’s eyes went wide, mouth gasping but only a few gurgled sounds coming out. Hands appeared from behind Max, shoving the brute of a man to the ground. Thomas smiled. He had passed out at last and was now dreaming, or hallucinating. Maybe he was finally dead. The figure looming over him now was much more pleasant. His avenging angel, no doubt, to make certain nothing else shameful ever happened to him again…  
Thomas’s head swam. Now the angel also spoke, which astonished him. The voice was even the same. It told him to awake, not to fall asleep completely. But wasn’t he already sleeping? Was this a dream within a dream, perhaps? His question was answered by a violent cold that washed across his face, causing him to gasp. His eyes opened, blurry still but because there was water in them this time. Almost immediately after the violent cold came warmth as two hands touched his face. Thomas struggled to find his senses. He sat up, wiped at his eyes, and stared dumbfounded at James. James breathed a sigh of relief. He dropped his hands from Thomas’s face.  
“Thomas. It’s James. Are you all right?”  
The memory of the letter days ago hit Thomas like a stone, vivid and fresh. The delivery man’s words about being prepared echoed in his brain. It seems he should have listened to them.  
“What?”  
James was helping him to his feet. Thomas realized he had spoken the sentence out loud. He repeated it, finally feeling grounded.  
“It seems…that I should have listened to the currier about being prepared, since clearly I am not.” It all came in a rough, hoarse tone. James’s face broke with emotion. He moved to embrace the other man but Thomas caught him, clasping his palms over James’s rough face and looking into his eyes. He was soaking wet and dirty—filthy—but Thomas hardly noticed.  
“Is it really you? I’m not dead?”  
The last question caught the pirate captain off guard. “Jesus, no. No Thomas. I’m getting you out of here, understand? But we’ve got to move. Now.”  
Thomas blinked, catching a glimpse of the fallen Max out of the corner of his eye. The once powerful man was now still, glazed eyes gaping up at the ceiling in the same eternal sleep that Thomas had only moments ago wished for. That seemed to bring him back fully to himself. He looked at James and nodded.  
James poked his face through the door, peering out into the hall, now darkened with only a few torches lit on the walls. The shadows they made flickered around two guards heading down the hall. James ducked his head back in, motioning for Thomas to be still. A quick glance at the other man and James knew he was still very much dazed, though he appeared to be fighting it, his eyebrows and expression fluctuating from confusion to determination. James fought off the doubt that presented itself to him in those moments, that after ten years in this place perhaps his friend had become damaged.  
The guards began doing a check of rooms, quietly knocking and peering in through the windowed bars. They were four doors away.  
“Shit.” James spun around. “Help me move him.” He grabbed the dead Frenchman under his arms and lifted. Thomas hesitated only a moment before grabbing two fistfuls of the man’s trousers and together they pulled him away from the door and against the wall behind it. Flint tightened his body to the left side of the door, carefully peeking out. The guards were at the door beside them, reading the names of the patients within off a list and then moving on when they heard a muffled response. Thomas suddenly bolted across the room. James hissed between his teeth.  
“What are you doing?”  
Thomas didn’t respond but instead doused out the bedside candles that had been lit, cloaking the room in darkness. James let out a breath. Thomas moved to the other side of the door, just beside Max’s body as the shadows of the guards crossed under the door. Two quick knocks came, following by Max’s name. Thomas must have guessed that James was considering answering when their eyes met and Thomas vehemently shook his head. During James’s indecision the guards made his decision for him and opened the door when no response came. As the first guard stepped through the threshold James lunged at him, wrapping one arm around his arms and the other hand to his mouth. They fell halfway on the bed with a small thud. James managed to see that Thomas had attacked the second man and was also wrestling him to the ground. After a few desperate minutes James managed to slam the guard’s head into a rounded bed knob, knocking him unconscious. He got to his feet as quickly as he could. Thomas was having less luck, struggling to keep the second guard from pulling out his pistol. James pulled out his sword and finished the struggle, grabbing the guard’s head and slicing his throat in one fluid motion.  
“Come on.” Breathless, James held out his hand. If Thomas had been dazed before, the look in his blue eyes now was bordering on shock. James realized it was because of him.  
“There’s no time,” James whispered as loud he dared. Thomas swallowed hard and took his hand. After another check out the door James bolted into the hall and towards the double doors several dozen yards away that led to the courtyard, Thomas right behind him. Their late night run attracted only the attention of a couple restless patients, peering out at them. One of them started to yell, though by now the two were out the double doors. They ran out onto the wide deck that overlooked the courtyard, now difficult to see. Thomas received a smaller shock when they walked right out in sheets of lukewarm rain, thunder and lightning. He hadn’t even known there was a storm.  
James grabbed his wrist, pulling him out into the lawn. They ran. Thomas thought he heard shouts behind them. He dared not look. As they approached the solid, 8-foot high stone wall that wrapped itself around the back of the building Thomas caught a glimpse of the toilet cistern and a crumpled coat lying beside it. For the first time that evening he was able to think clearly, realizing that James had crawled through the sewer below them to get inside.  
They reached the wall. James was already pulling out a long piece of rope from the pack he carried. Thomas now dared to glance behind them. The courtyard was immense in comparison to the size of the rest of the asylum, but through flashes from the sky Thomas could make out about four guards discerning the two of them standing there. Fear gripped him. This was madness and they surely would be caught. Yet it was happening and Thomas knew he would rather die than go back inside. He whirled around to James.  
“They’ve spotted us.”  
James had pulled out the rope, revealing it to be a massive grappling hook of which Thomas recognized as something only a ship would carry, and only a pirate ship would use. James squinted up through the rain, cursing. Thomas gripped his shoulder. James started, looking at his friend.  
“Don’t miss.”  
James tightened his jaw and his resolve, taking a long look at the top of the wall before giving the grappling a couple of strong swings and hurtling it upwards. It caught. Thomas wanted to faint. Behind them the voice of the guards were nearing. He felt James pushing the thick rope into his hand.  
“Climb!”  
Thomas didn’t hesitate this time. He wasn’t a strong man; the most physical activity he’d ever participated in was learning to duel and to tame a horse. Yet he was not stupid, either. He pulled himself up the wall, using his feet to support him. The hardest part was climbing to the edge. As soon as he was up he looked back down. James was already halfway up behind him and climbing like a mad man. He shouted something to Thomas but the thunder blotted it out. Thomas knew what it was regardless: Jump. He turned and looked down the other side of the wall. Blackness, save for the flashes of lightning that revealed a clump of bushes. Taking a deep breath, he braced himself and leapt, hoping to God he didn’t break his legs. He jumped sideways to prevent just that. His ribs screamed again as his body ripped through the rough plants. He couldn’t tell if the sounds he heard were his bones snapping or the twigs and branches.  
Seconds later he heard a thud beside him, followed in quick succession by the clank of the end of the grappling hook as it bounced off the wall once and into the bushes as well. It seemed forever before he wrestled his way out of the damned bushes, cut up and bruised and ribs surely cracked in ten places. James emerged beside him, looking much the same. The rain had washed off much of the muck he had been covered in and now Thomas saw more of the face he had once known, covered once again by a well-trimmed but no less rugged, reddish beard. He must have been staring.  
“Thomas, come on. We’re not safe yet.”

 

James had two horses waiting for them near the seaside cliffs. Thomas was nervous about his riding skills after so long without practice, but as soon as his feet were planted in the stirrups he was relieved to see he found some measure of self assuredness. They avoided the road directly, wary of the asylum guards, though Thomas remarked that it was unlikely they would be pursued given the weather and the fact that Stonehenge would now have one less mouth to feed. “You forget,” he said to James. “I’m one of the forgotten now.”  
They covered the two or so remaining miles unimpeded, but as the rain began to slack off James recognized one of Donner’s men on the side of the road, flagging them down. He immediately addressed James, sword in hand and a tense look on his face. James knew he had been in a skirmish.  
“Sir! Mr. Donner and Ms. Barlow were forced into hiding. Lord Ashe’s men patrol the town, looking for you.”  
Thomas’s worried eyes caught Flint’s own. “Miranda’s here?”  
James ignored the less important question. “Can you safely get her to the ship?” James asked the privateer, steadying his mount as the thunder gradually died down overhead. The man nodded after a moment’s hesitation.  
“Yes sir. They hide close to the shore already.”  
“Then do so. Be prepared to sail at first light.”  
The privateer nodded, adding quickly, “And the girl, sir?”  
Thomas looked to James, the question obvious on his face. James sighed. His head was spinning as he tried to focus through his exhaustion and physical pain; he had been weakened by his ordeal in the sewer pipe, the escape, and now Peter had complicated matters.  
“What girl?” Thomas was asking him.  
James wiped away the rain and grime from his face, ignoring the question.  
“She remains below deck for now,” he said to the waiting privateer. “Right now, we need to make it to the Seahawk discreetly and in one piece. The rest can wait.”  
The privateer nodded, understanding. He ran off to carry out his duty. James looked to Thomas, who looked as exhausted as he did. He snapped the horse’s reigns and urged them on.

 

James didn’t know what time it was when they reached his brig the Seahawk, only that the stars had come out from behind the storm clouds and that Miranda was safely onboard. He remembered she was carrying the layout to the asylum, soaked with rain. He remembered half-climbing, being half hoisted onto the deck of the ship, Thomas right behind him. That was all that had mattered. Nothingness soon overtook him.

He dreamt of drowning. A rather common dream for plenty of people, he knew, yet it always carried special meaning for a seaman. He’d had such dreams before, after years of service in Her Majesty’s Navy and then again as a pirate, yet this dream was recurring and, more to the point it had almost happened.  
He was falling, always falling first, body in an uncontrollable motion down, stomach in his throat. Then he hits the water from his backside, going under for a brief minute before surfacing. The lukewarm waters of the Bahamas, salt entering his nose and mouth, stinging his eyes as he gasps for air. Destruction is all around him, the corpses of his crew and the corpse of his blown-up ship floating by him. All is lost, and he knows it with a certainty that leads to despair. He’s moving; kicking out his arms and legs to stay afloat (or is he swimming?) as an automatic response, but once he feels the despair he simply stops.  
The water takes over then, rising over his lips and nose and forehead. He lets it embrace him, lets it begin its inevitable pull. Down again, always down. Into the depths of Davy Jones’ Locker, or Christian Hell, or whatever. It had all been for Thomas, after all, and now that his grand scheme to legitimize Nassau had failed, there just wasn’t a point. Down and down and down, faster and faster he sank, the bright blue aqua turning black around him…  
James jerked up, eyes popping open. Patrolling guards. Danger.  
He was sitting in a bed and Thomas was there, jumping out of his seat and telling him to calm down. James blinked. He was on the Seahawk. Reality crashed down around him. He let out a stuttered breath, wincing at the sudden aches and throbs over his body.  
“You’re all right,” Thomas said in a soothing and achingly familiar voice. “A bit worse for wear, but nothing broken.”  
James glanced down at himself. He was clean (Miranda’s doing, no doubt) and dressed only in white breeches with some bandages over his arms and chest. One major bluish bruise was on his stomach. That had been the jump into the damned bushes from the asylum. Thomas, on the other hand, had his right arm in a sling. He lifted his shirt slightly to reveal his own enormous bruise around his ribcage. James couldn’t help but wince.  
“That looks broke.”  
“A few cracked bones, yes, but we couldn’t find anything too badly damaged.”  
They both stopped, suddenly unable to rely on normal conversation and both coming to grips with what had transpired and what now was. James sighed again and leaned his head back on against the bed, looking at his long lost friend, content with simply gazing at him. He felt a small smile form on his lips. Thomas echoed it, leaning forward and taking his hand. Their fingers intertwined. James swallowed hard.  
“I…I overheard about some transfers from Bethlam,” James said softly. “It was by luck I was already planning to come to the Americas. I knew I had to try…when I found out you were here…I…”  
His diction left him. Thomas was beaming at him, eyes liquid blue. He reached up with is other hand and very lightly pushed back the locks of hair around James’s cheek. The contact was almost too much for James. He closed his eyes and fought back tears, looking away. Thomas pulled back.  
The door to the captain’s cabin creaked open and Miranda stepped through, smiling when she saw James.  
“Thank God. I was hoping it was just exhaustion. I didn’t want to wake you…”  
The plan suddenly jolted in James’s brain. He jerked up again, ignoring the pain.  
“What time is it? Are we underway?”  
He struggled to swing his legs over the side of the bed. Miranda motioned for him to remain still.  
“No. Not quite.”  
“What do you mean ‘not quite’?”  
“We’re anchored against the west side of the cliff bank outside of town,” said Thomas.  
“What? What the hell for?”  
“You’re certainly feeling dandy now,” Miranda muttered under her breath.  
“Because we’re not ready to leave yet,” Thomas answered. “Don’t worry. Mr. Donner positioned the ship fully away from the harbor. Only ships out to sea can see us. Miranda informed me on what has happened, including the situation with Peter’s daughter. James, we have to resolve this.”  
James said nothing to either of them for a long minute. He looked at his old friend again. “It’s good to see you have your wits fully intact after all, but there’s nothing to resolve.”  
James stood up against Miranda’s protests and grabbed a fresh red linen shirt she’d hung over the bedpost.  
“You’ve kidnapped the daughter of a lord governor, James,” Thomas said.  
James pulled the shirt down over his body.  
“I kidnapped her from a worse kidnapper. We need her.”  
“Yes. Miranda said you were looking for a way towards a pardon with Peter. That’s not going to work now.”  
“Are you serious?” James whirled around to face Thomas, voice filled with disbelief. “We need her to help Nassau, or didn’t she tell you that?” he asked, throwing an accusatory look to Miranda. Miranda looked exasperated.  
“Stop this.”  
Her voice was loud and commanding and in a tone that both men knew to heed to. Even as she said the words they both realized her reasoning. Her brown eyes scrutinized each of them, jaw set firmly.  
“We are not doing this again. It’s been ten years. Circumstances are much changed. We are all much changed.”  
Thomas looked up at her, rising from his seat to embrace her. He kissed her on the forehead and James watched as if years of separation had never happened. It touched him. It frightened him.  
“I’m sorry,” James said, looking sheepishly up at her.  
“As am I,” said Thomas. “Yet the situation remains. You can’t expect to use her to buy Nassau its legitimacy. I know what I proposed all those years ago sounded crazy, but this…this is…”  
“What?” James interrupted. “Madness? I think we’ve both experienced our fair share of that in the last ten years.”  
Thomas broke away from Miranda and approached him. James tried hard not to let those bright blue eyes draw him in too deeply. He didn’t want to argue with Thomas, not so soon after their reunion. He braced himself but the argument never came.  
“How would you do it?”  
Miranda flashed him an angry look. “You have got to be joking. Thomas, I though you understood…”  
“Was this not our dream?” Thomas asked her. “Was this not what we strove so ardently for in London? Sacrificed for? If James has done even half of the things you’ve told me then we just might make this work.”  
For his part James simply stood there, speechless. Miranda was furious, he could tell. Thomas came to her again, wrapping his arms around her from behind.  
“Please try to understand, Miranda.”  
Miranda pushed away from him and walked to the door. “I understand only too well,” she said before leaving them. Only when James heard the dull thud of her shoes climbing the stairs did he speak.  
“Why?”  
Thomas sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed his eyes.  
“Why not?”  
When Thomas looked back up his brows furrowed. “Why are you looking at me like that?”  
“Like what?”  
“As though I have an ulterior motive to agreeing with you?”  
James sighed. “I’m…sorry. Dealing with pirates is much different than the noble class of London. I’m used to being deceived.”  
“Pirates, yes. I still can’t believe you when I look at you, how you’ve changed.”  
James took up the bed beside him. Thomas followed his every move. He reached out and touched the small gold earring in James’s right ear.  
“And this…?”  
“One of the first orders of business when I became a pirate. I was also slightly drunk.”  
Thomas chuckled. He didn’t move his hand away but instead turned James’s face towards his. Their eyes met. Thomas leaned forward and gave him the barest of kisses on the lips. James inhaled sharply. The sensation of the contact gave him butterflies in his stomach.  
“Miranda’s right,” he said, pulling away. “I’m not the man you knew. I don’t even know if that man still exists.”  
“He must, or otherwise he would not still believe in Nassau,” said Thomas.

 

James surveyed the cliff side from the deck of the Seahawk. Mr. Donner had indeed picked a good spot; the waves were small and there was absolutely no view of the harbor. His spyglass showed only two ships were out to sea. One looked like another brig and the other was a much smaller schooner. No sign of the Royal Navy. Yet. Ashe would assume they had left.  
Around him were the six members of Donner’s crew, performing their regular duties and ship maintenance. Thomas was looking out to sea from the other side of the ship.  
“We can’t stay here too much longer,” said James, approaching him. “There’s bound to be the navy sooner or later, and even with an English banner we look suspicious.”  
“Have you considered my proposal, then?” asked Thomas.  
James planted his palms firmly on the edge of the ship and sighed. “You really think he’ll listen to you?”  
“If I go by myself, perhaps. I convinced him once before. You must let me take Abigail to him.”  
“No.”  
“Damnit James! It’s his daughter, for chrissake. We must prove to him that you’re still a good man, that your circumstances forced you into becoming this.”  
“That’s not entirely true.”  
Thomas tried not to show his shock at the statement, looking away from him. He recovered himself and replied, “He needs to believe it is.”

 

“My lord.”  
Lord Peter Ashe looked up from his desk in the drawing room when one of the servants addressed him.  
“It had better be about my daughter, Severis, or I don’t want to hear about it.”  
Severis bowed. “I believe it is sir. You have…an unexpected guest.”  
Peter watched as Severis opened the front door moments later. Thomas Hamilton stood there, alone. He bowed, removing his tricorne hat. Peter stared at him, shocked.  
“Thomas,” he finally breathed at last. “What--“  
He stopped himself and shouted at the guard who stood watch just outside.  
“Are there others?”  
“I assure you, I came completely alone,” said Thomas, looking imploringly at him.  
“Did McGraw get you out?”  
Thomas nodded hesitantly. “He did. Might I come in, old friend?”  
Peter waved him in, though Thomas couldn’t tell how friendly the gesture was. They retreated back to the drawing room, where Peter dropped all formalities.  
“You escaped from Stonehenge?”  
“Yes…”  
“Dear God, what was he thinking?”  
“I’m so glad that you’re happy to see me, Peter.”  
“Thomas, I am. Believe me. But now you’re a fugitive. And what about my daughter? Did you see her? Is she still alive?”  
Peter was beginning to get hysterical. Thomas laid two hands firmly on the other man’s shoulders.  
“Peter, please listen. Abigail is fine. I haven’t seen her, not yet, but they both have no reason to harm her.”  
Peter sighed, removing his wig and running a hand through his hair. A bitter smile graced his face and he shook head.  
“They were our friends once…”  
He trailed off, slumping down into one of the chairs in front of his desk. Thomas gingerly took the seat beside him.  
“I know. They’ve done terrible things, I know. But you must believe me when I tell you that James has done it all for Nassau. He’s working it from the inside, Peter. Trying to find a means to let the island become legit as we always intended it, to erase the stain of men like him, men who do what they do out of desperation.”  
“What, exactly, are you getting at?”  
“Talk to you peers. Convince them to at least consider our old plan for Nassau. Then I can bring your daughter home. We could make money, Peter. The Crown could make money off this. It would benefit everyone.”  
Peter was looking at him with mock seriousness. His eyes narrowed.  
“And what of James and Miranda?”  
“Full pardons. Along with other selected pirates. The good apples in the barrel, so to speak.”  
Peter was leaning back in the chair, playing idly with the rings on his fingers.  
“And then what? The three of you will live happily ever after, with no consequences for your actions?”  
Thomas shot him a look. “Is that what you think this is about? That we’re somehow looking to ‘get away’ with what you seem to think is our collective immoral life?”  
“Isn’t it though?”  
Thomas jerked to his feet, face flushed. “No! It is not. As a matter of fact Miranda simply wanted me to ask if you’ll pardon just the three of us, Nassau be damned. But James sees beyond his own wants. As do I. As did you at one time.”  
Now it was Peter’s turn to flash him an angry look.  
“Did it ever occur to any of you that could have simply asked me this, without dangling my daughter over me?”  
Thomas looked away, Peter’s point driving home.  
“Believe me, I don’t agree with how James came to this road. I all but condemned his actions with your daughter. It’s been hard on him; out there, away from civilization all these years.”  
“Ah, there’s that word,” sang Peter. “Civilization. You’re right, Thomas. At one time I did see beyond my own wants, as you put it. But since it all came crashing down around us I now see exactly what your father saw. It’s pure folly. Once civilization is lost it can never be regained, not as it was before. Piracy has only gotten worse since that time. Unfortunately the same is true of morality, it seems.”  
Peter looked at Thomas, intending his last sentence as a barely veiled barb. Thomas glared at him.  
“Is that what you think of me, then? Does this mean you’ll do it a second time; go running to the authorities like you did to my father?”  
Peter opened his mouth but nothing came out. Thomas clenched his jaw. “I thought as much. There was no one else, no one who could have known about James and I.”  
“I sincerely didn’t want to do that,” Peter said, voice barely a whisper. “I tried, damn you. I covered up James’s visits as best I could, made it seem to everyone that the two of you were simply good friends. You can’t imagine the stress…”  
A burst of laughter escaped Thomas. “The stress? For you?! You cannot imagine what it was like for me, for us.”  
“Nor do I wish to. You’re sick, Thomas. That was why I came to the conclusion that your father needed to know. For your own good.”  
Thomas raised a hand. “Stop. Just stop. I thought you understood; that you understood what love is, given how you clearly love your daughter. I see I was wrong.”  
Peter moved to speak but Thomas cut him off. “I just regained my freedom after a decade of bondage in mad houses. You cannot imagine the hatred I feel towards you right now, sir. I can assure you, you will not lock me up there again. You will at the very least give me a list of names, on paper, of your most prominent contacts here in the colonies, or you won’t see your daughter again.”

 

Abigail idly brushed through her long dark hair, getting out the last of the tangles with the brush Ms. Barlow had provided her. It felt good that at least her hair was back in its proper place. She kept brushing it long after it was smoothed out, imagining it was her mother doing the brushing the way she used to when Abigail was little. That thought brought unbidden images of her family to her mind. She forced back a sob and tried to concentrate on the brushing. The latch at the top of the stairs clanked. Miranda had already brought her a noonday meal, and it must be too early for dinner, surely. The little hole in the hull told her the sun was still high in the sky. Still, she longed for the other woman’s company.  
Abigail gave a start when she saw not the slippers of Ms. Barlow but instead the boots of Captain Flint descending the stairs. His presence always intimidated her, even though he never appeared to be trying for that effect. That, she supposed, was part of being a pirate.  
The captain greeted her with a nod and a small smile. Though he was always armed when she saw him his eyes carried some warmth to them today. Abigail stood and gave him a small courtesy.  
“Sir,” she said in greeting, her eyes following him the way a rabbit might watch a wolf nearby.  
James pulled up a chair and sat down. “I’m going to free you, Abigail. I’ve spoken with your father, and though he’s not agreed to all our terms, we’ve secured the man we came to free and came to a compromise. You’ll be taken to the inn shortly. I assume you can find your way back to your father’s mansion from there?”  
Abigail nodded. James leaned forward, elbows on his legs, and caught her gaze. His sea colored eyes looked sad to her in that moment, and Abigail found herself a bit more trusting of him.  
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry this happened to you,” he said.  
Abigail said nothing at first. James stood to leave.  
“I’ll let you collect yourself. When you’re ready, come topside.”  
“Wait…”  
James hesitated, one foot on the bottom stair.  
“Thank you. For being kinder to me than that Captain Vane. When I was taken to that island I was convinced all the men there were like him and his crew. But you…I do not know how good of a man you are, or the history between you and my father, but you are not a monster. At least I don’t think so.”  
James didn’t turn around. Her words struck him at his core. And how ridiculous should that be, that he was moved by a stranger who gave him validation for how he wanted others to see him after being called a monster all those years ago. He looked over his shoulder at her and said in a soft voice, “Thank you.”

Taking Lord Ashe’s daughter to the inn went without incident. Miranda saw to it she had a horse for the ride to her father’s. Thomas insisted on speaking to her before they left her, trying to convince her to put in a few good words about her captors. James said nothing, though they did catch each other’s gazes and Abigail offered him a terse smile. She hugged Miranda good-bye, thanking her for all her care and then was gone.  
Now James sat in the back of the Redfish Tavern, half a jug of rum in front of him. He knew they should be as far away as possible from this place; no doubt if any of Lord Ashe’s men came wondering by or were still looking for him he’d be vulnerable. James was not normally a man to take risks without ensuring he was three steps ahead of the game, yet here he sat, listening to the bawdy talk of other men about wenches and whores and how much money they had made. Once he had downed no small amount of liquor he looked around the room more boldly, seeing a mixture of clientele. There were plenty of regular merchants, but also several men (mostly the bawdy ones across from him) who were probably either privateers or pirates. Their numbers were small though, and James concluded they were trying to remain discreet. In this regard the colonies were a far cry from places like Port Royal and Nassau; a pirate had to be careful lest he caught any unwanted attention.  
He lost his train of thought. That was the point of this little escapade, wasn’t it? Not to think. He took another drink from the bottle.  
“This must be one of those changes that’s taken place since last we were together.”  
James looked up as Thomas took a stool beside him, nodding at the jug. James chuckled. “It’s not quite red wine, but it does the trick.”  
“Indeed. Although more to the point, shouldn’t we be sailing out of here? It’s too dangerous to linger with Peter still angry. We come back again after we’ve been to Nassau, rested and restocked and with your crew. Wasn’t that the plan?”  
“It is. It was.”  
James took another drink but made no move to get up. Frowning, Thomas took the jug and had a drink. He winced. James watched him. He wanted so badly to bend over and kiss those lips again, to run his fingers through Thomas’s short blonde hair. Again he remembered the smell of shaving cream, the feel of Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations in his hands…  
“You’re angry with her, aren’t you? I can tell there is tension between you.”  
The question caught James off guard. It took him a moment to realize Thomas was referring to Miranda. Ah yes, that was the other reason he’d come here tonight, wasn’t it?  
“It’s…complicated.”  
Thomas laughed outright and James realized how ridiculously obvious his words sounded given their collective past. He laughed too, a drunken laugh that rolled out of him. Then he stopped abruptly. He twirled the jug around slowly on the table.  
“It’s not important. You’re her husband. That’s more complicated.”  
Thomas’s eyes flicked around the room, suddenly wary.  
“This isn’t a good place to talk about this.”  
“Don’t worry. I’m not that drunk. Well, maybe I am. But I’ll stop. Suffice it to say her and I have always had different ideas about how to reach the same goal. It’s pulling us apart.”  
“That may be, but you’ll always have my eternal gratitude for looking out after her all these years. In my time in that horrid place—both of them—I never imagined the two of you would stay together. Without me, I always thought…gah, never mind.”  
Thomas dismissed his words with a flick of the wrist, looking frustrated. James chuckled again. He reached out and wrapped a hand behind Thomas’s neck, pulling him close until their foreheads were touching.  
“All right. It looks like eleven is your lucky number,” said Thomas, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Let’s go.”  
Together they walked out of the Redfish and across the dirt road to the inn. James half stumbled, one hand holding the rum and the other arm wrapped around his companion’s waist. James figured they didn’t look too suspicious this close to the tavern, just a couple of fellows having too much drink. He smirked at the thought. How appearances could be deceiving.  
Thomas led James to the bed, where he plied his waist free and gingerly let the larger man drop. James clutched the jug, spilling some of what was left of its contents on his shirt and the floor. He heard Miranda from near the fireplace.  
“You let him bring that back with him?” she chided Thomas.  
“It couldn’t be helped. It was all but glued to his hands.”  
“And I can smell it on your breath as well,” she said to Thomas.  
James raised his head just enough to see them standing there, smiling at each other. For an instant he thought things were back the way they used to be; he could imagine them all in the Hamilton household, sharing an evening brandy and recalling the day’s events, making political jokes and simply being together. He smiled and sat up on his elbows.  
“Just like old times,” he mused. “When we get back to Nassau Miranda, you’ll have to join us in some rum.”  
The mirth on her face faded, eyes flicking to Thomas. James was drunk, but he caught the look.  
“What is it?”  
“Nothing, darling. We can discuss it in the morning,” she replied.  
The alcohol danced inside James’s head, pushing his curiosity to the limits.  
“No. Tell me now.”  
He sat up all the way, placing the jug on the chair. Again, Miranda looked askance to Thomas before meeting James’s gaze.  
“Well what the bloody hell is it?” he demanded.  
Miranda moved the jug to the floor and took up the chair. She looked at him with a mask over her face. James felt himself growing nervous.  
“I’m not returning to Nassau with you. With the list Peter has provided us I’ve decided to stay here and travel north to Boston, like Mr. Guthrie originally intended. Once there I can hopefully get a pardon for myself and help you from afar.”  
James sucked in a breath of air. He stood and looked off into the fireplace.  
“What…are you talking about?”  
“I just told you,” she replied softly, coming over to him. She took his hands in hers, intertwining their fingers. The flames from the fire flickered in her eyes. To James they looked like two deep pools that he might lose himself to.  
“I love you,” she said. “I’ll always love you. But I cannot commit to this anymore. I want whatever Boston has to offer. It’s the only way for me.”  
A bitter expression came over James’s face. “You do this now…with Thomas no more than two days out of the asylum?”  
“She’s already told me,” Thomas said from behind him. “We argued, but her mind is made up.”  
James turned from her to him and back again. Miranda smiled at him, clasping his face within the palms of her hands, warm and soft.  
“Listen to me before you start yelling. I realized something the other night, hiding from Peter’s men. Mr. Donner and I were forced into that cavern, I told you. When I looked out through all the wind and rain and saw those men, they weren’t simply looking for us, they were hunting us. At least that’s what if felt like. I’ve never had such a feeling before. It left me cold inside, knowing I’ll never be fully accepted by anyone anywhere again, at least not in Nassau. I realized that things could never be the way they were before. Not for me, and not for us, no matter how hard we might try. And besides, I’m just standing in the way of you two. I always have been.”  
“Miranda, that’s not true…” James started, but she cut him off with a finger to his lips.  
“Yes, it is.”  
Miranda looked to Thomas. James saw he was watching her with a great sadness. She approached him and took off her wedding ring, handing it to him and curling his fingers around it.  
“This has gotten me through many difficult times. You take it now.”  
James looked away as Thomas cupped her chin and they shared a long kiss. He gazed into the fire until his eyes stung. What this really happening? He stumbled back to the bed, finishing the last drops of the rum. He lay down slowly, hearing Thomas and Miranda in the background. He remembered her touch again and soothing words—parting words she spoke to him—then said she would leave in the morning. The fire cackled. His eyes were closed. Someone kissed his lips lightly. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and rolled over.

 

It was late morning when he woke. He remembered dreaming but his dreams had been blurred and unclear, thanks to the liquor he had consumed. He was alone in the room. He washed his face and arms and went across the hall to Thomas’s room. He rapped gently on the door. Thomas answered.  
“How is that thick skull of yours this morning?” he asked. James tried not to smile.  
“It’s been better. Miranda?”  
“Still here. Getting the last of her travel arrangements ready and waiting on you.”  
“I’ll go get dressed…”  
“James.”  
James stopped. Thomas loomed in the doorway still. He opened the door fully and stepped aside.  
“I wanted you to know I fought for her. Last night, you looked at me like it was my fault she was leaving. Well, as you can see, we argued about it.”  
James’s eyes roamed over a room in disarray; shattered pieces of clay pottery and the room’s only picture lay strewn about on the floor. He said nothing at first. The first words that came to his lips were “I’m sorry.”  
Their eyes met, and as the grogginess of his drinking began to wear off James knew the words were hollow at best. The truth of the matter was he wanted Thomas all to himself, and yet he was terrified of that very thing happening.

They bade Miranda a final farewell at the docks. She was to travel north by ship to the Pennsylvania Colony and from there by carriage to Boston. It was there that Miranda pulled out a piece of parchment and showed it to James. It was the list Peter had given them.  
“A copy,” said Miranda as soon as James opened his mouth. “I cannot be with you, but I can still help. Rest assured I’ll do what I can to get them to listen while you and Thomas are in Nassau.”  
James looked to Thomas, who nodded his consent.  
“You were busy getting drunk when I was copying it,” Miranda added when she saw the question in his eyes. He nodded.  
“Just make certain no one else ever lays eyes on that,” he told her. “And if you need to send correspondence, address it to—“  
“Mr. Hamilton, yes,” Miranda finished the sentence for him. Clearly she and Thomas had already worked this out. As far as he could tell this seemed like a step in the right direction. If Miranda was staying behind anyway, then this maneuver could expedite their plan, if she were successful. The thought made him feel better somewhat, though he was still loathe to see her leave.  
The two men watched as the ship pulled out of the harbor, then the bay. James turned to Thomas. There were tears in his eyes.  
“Damn.” Thomas wiped them away and steadied himself. James reached up and touched the back of his neck briefly, thumb giving the briefest of caresses behind his left ear before letting his hand drop.  
“She’ll be fine,” said James. “She’s strong, even stronger now than she was.”  
Thomas smiled, eyes glancing at him sideways before returning to the sea. “Yes. I can believe that. Now, we’ve business to discuss,” he said, needing the change the subject. “Tell me about the five million Spanish dollars you’ve got hidden on an island somewhere down there.”

 

James and Thomas returned to the Seahawk, where James finished paying the last of Mr. Donner’s crew their cut for remaining with him. He promised them they would be underway for Nassau within the next day. Then they retired to the captain’s quarters.  
“And this isn’t your ship?” Thomas was asking as they entered the room.  
“Yes and no. The Walrus is going to be out of commission for some time with repairs. She’s bigger than this brig. My quarters alone are twice this size. I have a bookcase here, along the back wall.”  
James motioned behind the desk, indicating the size of the bookcase.  
Thomas grinned, pleased that their collective love of books still existed. “Of course you do. Now about this gold…”  
James started from the beginning. Miranda had only been able to tell him bits and pieces of course, so James filled in the major gaps: how hard it had been even to convince the crew to go after the treasure ship, then the mutiny that had taken place during the attack and how by sheer luck weather had caused the mighty galleon to crash onto the beach, spilling its belly full of gold all over the white sand. Finally he told Thomas that he had left the knowledge of the gold’s location in the hands of one John Silver, who was to protect that knowledge, and that of Eleanor Guthrie, who was to mislead anyone who might get curious enough to start looking for it. He told Thomas how unstable the whole situation had become, that everyone knew it was somewhere but not its exact location.  
“You really expect all that gold to still be sitting there when we return?”  
“Not all of it, no. If Silver had a chance he’d take it, but there’s too many Spanish around it for any of us to risk such a maneuver.”  
Thomas looked around the cabin, strolling over to the window on the left side of the ship, hands clasped behind his back.  
“It would help out tremendously of course, to gain even a fraction of it for our cause, but it would just as quickly work against us. When Spain finds out it’s been pirated away, that will send out the wrong message to England as well.”  
“You really think England gives a damn about Spanish gold?”  
“No, but they’ll use it as an excuse that Nassau and its like are undeserving of its help. Certainly not pardon-worthy. Honestly James, a treasure galleon? Taking coin of this magnitude is going to attract everyone’s attention.”  
James had sat down behind his desk, eyes fixated on the compass he fidgeted with in his hands. He didn’t respond for a long time. The other man could tell he was struggling with his options, sorting things out like a game of chess, something they used to play together. When he thought of that, Thomas suddenly realized what James might be considering.  
“You’re not going to attempt to dupe England, are you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at his companion.  
James looked up at him slowly, corner of his mouth twitching under his moustache. Thomas’s jaw went slack.  
“James…”  
“I don’t know what I’m going to do yet. I’ve shed blood, sweat and tears for that gold, and I’m not even sure if it fucking matters anymore.”  
He shoved the compass and all the charts under it across the desk with a rough shove. Thomas let out a breath.  
“We don’t have to talk about this now anyway. After ten years, we finally have time to ourselves.”

 

The trip back to the Bahamas would take them roughly a week, depending on the currents and weather, of course. When James wasn’t checking their course in his quarters or conferring with Mr. Donner about other ships spotted he pretended to be double checking anything from food rations, the conditions of the livestock on board (just one goat and one pig, for a week’s journey), to the conditions of the ammunition and if it should be moved due to a leaky spot overhead. He even spent half a day helping the crew re-rig a loose set of knots, which was blamed on the newest member of Donner’s crew and for the haste with which they had left Nassau. Truth be told the exercise didn’t take half a day, but James stretched it out, chatting with the crew about this and that. Anything that helped him avoid alone time with Thomas.  
It was inevitable however, and at first their conversations (usually in the captain’s quarters; Thomas insisted he was fine rooming below deck with the crew) stayed mainly on topic about their plans once reaching Nassau. On their fourth morning out to sea and after breakfast Thomas told James more about his meeting with Peter Ashe, admitting that he exaggerated his own knowledge about James in his attempt to sell the deal to Peter.  
“I made it sound as though I still knew you, made up sympathy stories about your hardships as a pirate, vaguely worded of course. He was too focused on what I trying to sell to realize how I was trying to sell it.”  
He’d thrown James a look of sorts that James took to mean he wanted answers, details, anything at all about the last ten years of the old navy officer’s life. James refused the bait, instead asking more about Peter. It was wrong of him; Thomas deserved an explanation, he knew. He just wasn’t ready, and he was beginning to think he never would be. Ten years. It was a long time to be apart. And as familiar as Thomas’s looks, gestures and personality remained to James, he could sense a change in the other man as well. The idea that the two of them might not be compatible anymore terrified him beyond belief. He let some of his feelings slip later that evening.  
James had been at the wheel, relieving the helmsman of duty. Normally another crewman would take over the often tedious job of keeping the ship on course, but James enjoyed the task and had since he’d been in the navy. It usually gave him peace of mind and a chance to clear his thoughts with nothing but the salty wind in his face and the dull crash of water as the ship sliced through the ocean.  
This evening, however, Thomas joined him. They chatted idly for a few moments before falling silent. James gradually became aware that Thomas was watching him. He glanced at the blonde-haired man sideways, one eyebrow raised.  
“What?”  
“Just admiring you there. I’ve never actually seen you in your natural habitat, as it were.”  
James turned his head to look at him, half a smile on his lips. “It settles me,” he said.  
“’Look back over the past, with its changing empires that rose and fell, and you can foresee the future, too.’”  
James knew the quote well. It was from Marcus Aurelius. Thomas had meant to relate it to his life at sea but to James it suddenly darkened everything. A flash of his dreams came to him, of sinking beneath the water’s surface as everything turned black around him.  
“What’s the matter?”  
James blinked. He could feel those blue eyes boring into him but in a polite, gentlemanly way, Thomas’s way, wanting him to open up, to let him in.  
“Nothing. Sometimes the past can be more of a bad omen.”  
He regretted the words as soon as he’d spoken them. He made a disgruntled sound before Thomas could reply.  
“Sorry. I didn’t mean it quite like that. I’m just…tired.”  
Thomas’s hand wrapped over his on the wheel, his voice next to James’s ear.  
“You can’t bullshit me forever.”  
James looked at him sharply then quickly looked away. His cheeks were burning, though whether it was with embarrassment or shame he didn’t know. He said nothing, hands gripping the massive handles of the wheel tight enough to ache. He wasn’t ready for this. Not yet. Thomas’s hand slipped away and he left the deck as silently as he’d come on to it.

 

He dreamt again that night. He was in the water, surrounded by the debris and destruction yet again, about to go under. This time, however, time jumped into a different space, and James was on board the Urca de Lima, her body full and new. He was drifting, floating, not really walking, and he was wearing his captain’s long coat but with the stiff black boots and tricorne hat he’d worn as a navy officer. He was standing still, inside…the captain’s quarters? He barely looked around before he was firmly standing inside Thomas’s bed chamber back in London. His body was still swaying as though he were on a ship. Thomas was there where he had not been a moment before. James felt the sparks of passion churning in him. He was kissing Thomas, Thomas was kissing him. The hat and boots and everything else came off. Thomas pushed him on the bed, fully nude. James felt his erection rock-hard as Thomas melted into him, lips desperately kissing his collarbone, his nipples, his stomach. James groaned, unable to bear it. Then suddenly he pulled his arm away from Thomas’s side, a blade sliding out of Thomas’s body with the motion. Blood covered his hand, the sheets.  
James jerked up, gasping for air. His eyes focused on the darkened bed sheets around him, looking for blood. There was none. He swallowed, throat dry as cotton. He reached over and knocked the pitcher of water onto the floor.  
“Fuck.”  
He steadied himself, running a hand over his forehead to push back the hair from his face. It was damp with sweat. His whole body was covered in cold perspiration. James forced himself to take several deep breaths. Then he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and carefully scooped the pitcher off the floor. Half of its contents still remained. He drank it all, setting the pitcher back down and taking more deep breaths.  
“Jesus.” It came out in a breathless whisper. He remained sitting there for some time, until his heartbeat was normal again. The room around him seemed like a huge, empty hole, swallowing him up until he lay down and closed his eyes, forcing the sensation away.

 

When they spoke about Nassau they were as two shrewd businessmen, with James always pushing Thomas’s ideas of acceptable boundaries. He also slowly but surely got him to accept the things James told him about life away from civilization. When they spoke about anything else, however, it was as two ghosts who knew only of the past. Again and again Thomas would push him, goad him even, into opening up, and James would always fall silent.  
On the morning of their sixth day and not long after James had finished double-checking their route and had decided they were on schedule, the boson’s mate called out an alarm. From the bow of the ship Mr. Donner handed James the spyglass.  
“Not one but two of them,” he said, referring to the pair of Royal Navy ships directly in their path some half a mile away. “And look at who they bring down, bloody bastards.”  
James watched through the glass as the two English vessels maneuvered to block what James knew was a final, desperate attempt for the third ship to escape. White and gray smoke billowed up into the clear blue sky. The banner of the third ship was black. The smoke turned the same color as an explosion echoed through the distance; ammunitions had been hit, most likely. The ship was done for.  
James lowered the glass. “Damnit.”  
Thomas appeared from below deck, hurrying across the ship when he spotted the two men.  
“What is it? I heard an explosion—“  
James nodded out to sea.  
“We have a problem.”  
He handed the spyglass to Thomas and turned to Donner.  
“What do you think?”  
“If not for the attack, I would say we could stay the course, without causing much notice flying under this merchant banner. But now…”  
“…They’ll be nosy,” James finished. Donner nodded in agreement.  
James considered his options only briefly before giving the order.  
“Change course. Turn her around to the east. We’ll have to circumnavigate for a while before getting back on route. Push us back a day, maybe two.”  
Donner nodded and began shouting out orders to the crew, who were already awaiting his command. James turned and saw that Thomas was still watching the three ships. The navy had its prize and now they were boarding the smaller vessel. He looked at James, expression perplexed.  
“I don’t know how to feel about it,” he said at length. “Times were, I knew it was for the greater good even though I disagreed with the punishment for piracy. Now, when I look at you, when I think about how London—my father—treated us for a crime far less criminal, it strips away my ideals.”  
James took his spyglass out of Thomas's hands as he shrugged by him.  
“You don’t have to feel any way about it,” James replied coolly.  
It was a barb. James expected the other man to be hot on his feels, following him below deck and raising his voice to him, but it was not so.  
James spent the next few hours at his desk, re-plotting their course and going over in his mind how best to handle Thomas with everyone on Nassau. When it was time for midday meal there was no knock on the door and he ate alone. He was half relieved, half irritated Thomas chose to leave him alone. He was even more surprised (or disappointed) when the sun hung low in the sky and still he remained undisturbed.  
He’d done a final check of everything and everyone topside at dusk. Mr. Donner and his men had proved themselves in his eyes as quite capable seamen so he spoke briefly to Donner about adding an extra shilling to all of their final payments.  
It wasn’t until he had retired to his bed that Thomas came to him. He was dressed only in a pair of loose breeches, a copy of Milton’s Paradise Lost across his lap. His bed and a scant amount of furniture were in a small room connected to the captain’s quarters. A gentle rapping came from the door. Thomas poked his head in.  
“Hope I’m not disturbing you…”  
James sat up. “No, no. Just trying to get through Milton. I don’t like it.”  
He laid the book aside and rose. Thomas didn’t appear angry or upset with him. He had retired the rather ragged outfit he’d been wearing since his escape and had changed into the light gray linens James had provided him, losing the suit of a nobleman for a look more in tune with the rest of the crew. James was about to comment to that effect when Thomas came at him and kissed him, firm but gentle, on the lips. Before he had time to react one way or the other Thomas deepened the kiss, tongue pushing inside James’s mouth. James felt his stomach drop. His muscles tensed but he accepted the kiss; clamped his mouth around Thomas's. Thomas moaned lightly, pushing him against the wall in a few short steps, hands probing all over James’s bare chest and stomach. James grew hot all over as Thomas moved his lips down to the pirate captain’s neck. James stuttered in a breath. Fingers tickled around his waistline, pressing down into his breeches.  
“No. Stop. Please.”  
His voice came out in a ragged breath, almost pleading. Thomas complied, backing up, blue eyes still lidded with lust searching his sea green ones, confused.  
“I’m sorry. Talking didn’t seem to work, so I thought…”  
Thomas trailed off, his lust turning into a bitter smile on his lips. He looked away and shook his head before turning on his heels and leaving.  
James pushed away from the wall, staring at the door after him. He felt his face twist in anger as he slammed his fist in the wall.  
“Fuck.”  
He forced himself to run through the bedroom door just as Thomas was about to walk through the captain’s quarters.  
“I’m sorry.”  
Thomas paused and slowly turned around. James took a deep breath.  
“I’m sorry,” he started again in a more even tone. “I know you want answers. I know I’m being an ass. The truth is you don’t want to know about me. You don’t want to know about the man I’ve become, because I don’t think you’d like him. In fact, you may come to hate him and I can’t bear the thought of it.”  
James stopped before he started rambling uncontrollably. He swallowed hard. Thomas came to him but stopped a few feet away.  
“I don’t believe that. Nothing you could tell me could make me hate you, no matter what it might be. I know you’ve struggled, that you’ve had to things you normally wouldn’t have…”  
“No, you can’t possibly begin to imagine—“  
“I know about my father’s death.”  
James looked at him sharply, unable to conceal his shock.  
Thomas nodded. James’s eyes darted back and forth as he thought.  
“Miranda—“ he began.  
“No. She told me, but I had already known. You see, during my first year in Bethlam people still cared about my name. I heard the latest gossip here and there; things reached my ear from the outside, usually from the guards. The news of Alfred Hamilton’s death by pirates, well, that was certainly on everyone’s lips. I was told he was brutally murdered, he and his wife—my stepmother—while on board the Maria Aleyne. No one knew why, couldn’t figure out the motive for so brutal a killing. The cargo wasn’t much and none of the other crew was killed in such a fashion. It was attributed to the brutish nature of pirates in general. The name of Captain Flint wasn’t known then, but even so I had a feeling when the motive couldn’t be explained.”  
James felt a desperation rising in him. Thomas would hate him now, for certain.  
“Thomas, listen, I—“  
“Stop,” he said firmly. “Listen to me. Even as I spent weeks and months thinking about you killing my father I wasn’t angry at you, ever. You see my father was always a cold man, always that way to me. I already hated him for what he’d done to me because I knew he didn’t really think I was mentally ill. He did it just to appease his friends in Parliament, to ensure that the son’s behavior was no reflection on the father. He wanted to get rid of me, so he did. So you see, I cannot hate you for it.”  
Thomas was touching his cheek now. James closed his eyes, feeling a single tear slide down his face.  
“I forgive you, James.”  
James let out a sigh, his whole body sagging. He gently took the hand from his cheek, holding on to it a moment longer.  
“It’s not just that. I’ve killed others. I’ve lied and cheated and murdered to stay a captain. I killed…I killed my own quartermaster…”  
James gritted his teeth together as the horrendous images of breaking Mr. Gates’s neck flashed through his mind.  
“…I killed him even after he offered to smuggle Miranda and I away to Boston. He was a good man. He never betrayed me, and I killed him. You can’t forgive me for that.”  
“Shhh…”  
Before James realized it he was in Thomas’s arms, being held upright. He tried with all his might to hold in his sobs, his guilt, all of it. Yet Thomas didn’t seem to care one iota. His hands clasped James’s back like solid rock, supporting him. James fought against it, tried to pull away but Thomas held fast. James buried his head into the crook of the other man’s neck, letting a few sobs escape but no more. He got a hold of himself as best he could and pulled away, running an arm over his face as he did so.  
“I need a drink,” he said. They both laughed, breaking the tension and allowing James to breathe easier. They finished the evening and part of the night sitting across from each other at the captain’s desk, bottle of rum and two glasses between them.

 

The next day was spent going over how Thomas was to acclimate himself to Nassau. The first thing James focused on what his attire. Thomas had gone back to his original breeches after a washing.  
“The shirt looks fine, but those have to go,” said James. He pointed to Thomas’s tight, silken breeches he still wore, along with white stockings. “I’ll give you some trousers. Black, I think. And some boots.”  
Thomas was trying hard not to hide his disdain. “Trousers? Must I? What about some loose breeches?”  
James was already rummaging through his closet beside his bed. “No. Perhaps eventually, but not yet.”  
Once they found an outfit—a gray linen shirt, black trousers, not too worn and short-length boots—James appraised him. A half grin spread under his moustache.  
“You look good.”  
Thomas pretended to look annoyed. “Flattery will get you nowhere, darling.”  
“And you’ll need to start growing a beard.”  
Thomas raised his hand to his chin absently. He had always been a clean shaven man, as was proper for a nobleman. His face retained a baby-smooth glow to it, even after so many years in asylums. “Are you serious? Me, with a beard?”  
James chuckled. “Trust me. There’s not a man on that island without some stubble, at least. Here, put on this belt.”  
Once all was said and done James admired his handiwork. Aside from the lack of facial hair Thomas could blend in easily with Donner’s crew when they disembarked, he decided.  
Next they discussed exactly what Thomas should do and shouldn’t do; say and shouldn’t say. It was difficult for James to explain to him the nuances of hiding his identity despite the fact he himself had been doing it for so long. Act normal but don’t talk too much. Be courteous but not as polite as you normally would be. Absolutely no bowing to anyone; everyone was treated equally. Don’t worry about any mannerisms. James tried his best to prepare Thomas for the less-than-eloquent behaviors of pirates. Thomas should either ignore anything obscene or laugh at it, he said. Thomas raised an eyebrow at the end of this particularly lengthy monologue.  
“You make it sound as though I’m going to be living on a land full of monkeys and wild apes.”  
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to over emphasize. I just don’t want anyone getting suspicious. And, actually, some of them aren’t far off from wild apes.”  
Lastly and most importantly they focused on Thomas’s back story. Half truths, he told Thomas, worked best. If anyone got curious he should tell them his father had wanted to commit him to a mental institution but that Thomas had fought against it.  
“You lashed out, refused to go along,” said James, pacing back and forth, one hand rubbing his beard as he thought. “So your father told members of Parliament and before they could do anything legally you up and left it all behind. You sailed for the New World, got attacked by pirates and joined them. That’s about as much detail as you’ll need.”  
“And if they ask for specifics? What pirate crew, for example?”  
James thought a moment. “Tell them Captain Baldridge. He’s dead now and stuck mostly to the islands south of the Bahamas. No one will know him or his crew, except by name.”  
Thomas nodded. “Very well. Are you writing this down?”  
James froze and looked at him with panic in his eyes. Without so much as a grin Thomas lifted a piece of parchment he had been writing on, two pages long now.  
“I’ll have it memorized and I’ll get rid of it, don’t worry.”  
James sighed and gave him a dirty look.

 

They had no more trouble with the navy as they sailed into pirate waters and away from the Americas. James was becoming nervous as they were less than a day away from Nassau. He finalized their first day down to the minute in his head and told not only Thomas but all of Donner’s crew as well topside as they sailed towards the island.  
“Mr. Hamilton is to blend in perfectly with you all as we disembark. He’ll help carry cargo off the ship; he’ll see it to the warehouses with you. He is, as far as any of you know, a new recruit we’ve picked up who is going to join my crew. That is all any of you know. Is that clear?”  
James eyed each of the seven men around him, including Donner. They all nodded and grunted in agreement. Satisfied, James gave a nod. “Good.”  
The crew broke up and got ready to steer into Nassau’s harbor. James turned to Thomas, who had listened quietly at his side.  
“I want this day to go by quietly. Once you finish unloading I want you to go here.”  
James handed him a small piece of paper with a map drawn onto it in his own hand. It was of a portion of Nassau, complete with labels.  
“The harbor is here. Walk about three kilometers to the left and head back into the interior. You’ll quickly find a white dirt path and corn fields. Follow the path until you reach it, here.”  
James pointed at the drawing of a house. Thomas looked up at him. “This is where you and Miranda lived?”  
“She lived there far more than I did, but yes. It’s home.”  
Thomas stared at the drawing. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had one.”

 

Thomas watched as the island of New Providence grew larger and larger as the Seahawk approached. At first only a clump of black-green land in the distance, it now took on shape and form. There were trees—the tropical palms and other oddities he wasn’t used to—and of course a long stretch of beach that seemed to have no end. He saw the island’s rectangular-shaped fort also growing larger as they entered the harbor. It was large and its stones looked sturdy. He made out cannons perched along its ridges. He wondered if anyone manned it. The beach was remarkably busy. As they prepared to dock he saw a multitude of people walking to and fro. He recognized some things, such as the open marketplace (though the goods were strange) and, behind all the initial hustle and bustle he thought he could make out taller, more established buildings such as an inn.  
More than anything Thomas watched the people. Mostly men but also women and even children, playing along the shore. They were all dressed plainly but otherwise appeared…normal. By the time the ship had dropped anchor he was watching a young boy pick up a conch shell with a friend. Delighted, they put the shell to their ears. A large, rugged-looking man came and scooped up the boy a few moments later. The boy squealed, laughing. The man had to be his father. Though he smiled and played with the boy he looked as though he could knock Thomas out with a single blow. A pistol was tucked underneath his waistband. In fact most of the men here were armed with either a pistol or sword or dagger.  
“Not quite an island of monkeys, is it?”  
Thomas turned to James, who stood beside him, also watching the two boys and their father.  
“I need to ask something of you. Something you must do for me.”  
James looked at him, waiting patiently.  
“Help make me strong. If I’m to stay here with you I need to not only dress and act like one of these men, I need to be like them in body as well.”  
“Thomas…”  
The blonde man could already hear the objection in his companion’s voice.  
“I’m serious. I’m not like you, like the others.” He nodded to Donner’s crew. “I am weak.”  
“You’re not weak…”  
“I am.” Thomas closed his eyes, his mind replaying the scene moments before James had found him in the asylum. The moment the Frenchman Maximilien was ready to force himself on him, to take away whatever shred of normalcy Thomas had left.  
The truth was he would have if James hadn’t saved him. He paused, not daring to speak of such a painful truth just yet.  
“I am,” he repeated. “I’m defenseless against the brute strength of another man,” he said instead. Whether or not James made the connection he couldn’t tell.  
“You’re not as weak as you think,” James replied. “You are strong. I’ve seen it. I’ve…felt it.”  
Their eyes met in that intimate way, soft blue and grey-green mixing together. Thomas cracked a smile. He leaned in ever so slightly and dropped his voice as the crew hurried around them, ready to disembark.  
“I may make a good lover, but it’s not the same, and you know it.”  
James gazed at him a moment longer. Thomas knew the look as James struggled to make a decision.  
“No. We need to focus on the moment.”

 

James watched as Thomas joined the crew as they gathered supplies and cargo and disembarked. He paid them and Mr. Donner the rest of their money and bid them good fortune. Then he headed in the direction of the tavern to speak to Eleanor Guthrie. He had told Thomas only briefly about Eleanor, though the man had been somewhat mesmerized by the story of a woman in her twenties who commanded the enterprise of an entire island.  
When she met him his first inquiry was about the status of the Urca gold, even though it had fallen quite far down on his list of priorities. Eleanor reassured him that John Silver still had the crew guarding it from afar, watching the Spanish crew tediously pick it up off the beach. He pretended to be more interested than he was; his true gold was now waiting for him at home. He knew the gold could still potentially help his main goal, though now it was becoming less clear exactly how that was to happen, especially when he considered his conversation with Thomas about it earlier. One thing at a time, he told himself.  
The rest of the conversation went smoothly (she was in a good mood), and even though James didn’t have much in the way of prize money to offer, she accepted what stolen booty he and Mr. Donner had managed to procure from the Carolinas, readily accepting his lie that it came from a Dutch merchant ship.  
Next James went downstairs to the tavern proper, where he wrangled up Mr. Dufresne and a few more members of his own crew. He had a few drinks with them, forcing himself to have patience. They wanted to know all about his outing. He casually mentioned the addition of a new crew member. He told them Thomas was an old acquaintance from his earliest days away from London and that he was trustworthy. That seemed fine to both Dufresne and the others, for now.  
He finished a third ale with them and excused himself. No doubt they figured he was going to spend time with Ms. Barlow. He hadn’t said anything about Miranda. No one even knew she was no longer on the island. That, he decided, could wait.

 

Thomas let himself in through the white-washed door of the colonial house. It was much simpler than what he was used to, but it was far from poor. There was a kitchen with a full rack for dishes nestled in the corner, with dried herbs hanging in front of it. He immediately thought of Miranda, thought of her working her way expertly around the kitchen. He looked at the wooden dining table just across from the kitchen, touching it gingerly. Big enough for two people. It was hard to imagine his Miranda and James living here, yet it had been so for ten years. He walked on to the bed chamber, wondering for the first time if their love life had succeeded here or not.  
A man’s shirt lay on the bed. There was a slight whiff of salty air to it. James. He sat down on the bed as a great wave of sadness washed over him. Ever since they had left the Americas he’d only been able to think about the present and his own escape from Stonehenge Asylum, of how grateful he was to be rid of that place. Now, looking around at the signs of everyday living in the house, imagining the two people who had called it home, he realized he missed his wife terribly. When he had first laid eyes on her on the Seahawk that rainy night, his heart had leapt in his throat. They had embraced tightly. He covered her face in kisses, holding her face in his hands and blinking to make certain he wasn’t dreaming. She had wept, crying out she never thought she would see him again. Then, so quickly it seemed, she was gone from him again. Thomas chocked back a sob, rubbing a thumb and a finger over his eyebrows.  
They had all been together in London. Somehow, for however brief a time, they had made it work, all three of them. He loved them both, but not the same. His love for Miranda was built on years of formal courtship, of a common bond they discovered, of how straightforward she was with him. She had supported all his ideas, including legitimizing Nassau. James, however, he loved fiercely and hotly and in a way he had never known with another person. It was the strength of that passion that had allowed him to boldly show it in front of Miranda that fateful evening at the dinner table, slowly leaning in and kissing him.  
Even now as Thomas remembered that first kiss it took his breath away. And Miranda, God bless her, had accepted it for what it was, as he had hoped she would. Thomas had known she already knew of his feelings anyway.  
Thomas let out a sigh, pushing away the sadness he felt at her loss. He focused instead on this place, on how he was to ever fit in to a place as foreign to him as this. Then again, he thought, James was also a stranger to him, yet still so familiar. He remembered the boys and their father along the beach. Perhaps this place could still be familiar as well. 

 

James made it back home just before sunset. It felt good to be here. He opened the door and called out “Thomas?”  
Thomas appeared from the bed room. James informed him his meeting with Ms. Guthrie went well and that he had told the crew about its newest member. He had also brought part of dinner home—a roasted chicken, which they ate along with some vegetables already stored in the house. As the night grew late Thomas grew apprehensive about their sleeping arrangements as he considered James’s earlier reaction to physical intimacy. He gestured to the only couch in the house, worn and drab but intact.  
“I suppose this couch is as good as any,” he quipped after changing into a fresh shirt and loose breeches. James grabbed his arm before he could walk away. His face was on the floor.  
“Sleep with me,” he said softly. “Just…sleep beside me,” he clarified when Thomas threw him a questioning look. Thomas sensed a desperation in the other man, something James had become so trained at keeping to himself he could have fooled almost anyone. Almost anyone, Thomas thought. 

Long after he had blown out the last candle James lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Thomas had drifted off to sleep, his back to James, snoring softly. James smiled to himself. Some things never changed. He stared at the ceiling until its patterns started playing tricks with his eyes. He didn’t want to think about all the thoughts swirling around in his head or about himself and the man he had become. He focused on the patterns until finally he grew tired of them and rolled over on his side.  
He was in the water, trying to stay above it until he made up his mind to stop swimming (was he actually moving or simply exhausting himself staying in one place?). The wetness came over his face and head, pulling him down yet again. This time he opened his eyes. Bodies floated around him, some far away and indistinguishable, others closer. Mr. Gates suddenly floated before him, eyes open and looking at him. James started and struggled to turn around and away from the sight. There was Billy Bones also, dead but looking at him, dressed as he had been the night he’d fallen off the bow of the Walrus. Again James turned away, feeling himself in a nightmare and being aware of it. He kept sinking down and down, but now his limbs reached out, legs pumping as he tried to rise again. He did not want this, not the darkness this time, no. He fought harder against it, tried with all his might to swim up and back into the light. It was just above him, just out of reach, the sunlight glistening, beckoning to him. He gritted his teeth and reached for it, but something grabbed a hold of his ankle and jerked. He opened his mouth to cry out and the water came rushing in…  
Thomas was calling out to him, saying his name. He was repeating it now, with more concern. James realized he’d been screaming. He stopped, blinking and realizing he had been dreaming. Thomas was shaking him, telling him to wake up. He coughed and caught his breath, holding up a hand. Thomas sighed.  
“I’m alright,” said James at last.  
“For God’s sake, I thought you were having some sort of episode,” said Thomas, still trying to calm himself down. James finally caught his breath. He was once again covered in sweat.  
“I’m...I’m sorry. Sometimes I have these dreams, very vivid dreams. It happens a lot.”  
“More like nightmares,” Thomas said softly, picking up his shirt from the floor and wiping James’s forehead with it without thinking. James’s hand shot up and grabbed his wrist.  
“Sorry. Old habits die hard, as they say.”  
James stared at him, eyes filled with an intensity Thomas didn’t quite understand. He still held Thomas’s wrist.  
“James…?”  
James leaned forward and kissed him. He dropped Thomas’s wrist and raised his hand to the other man’s neck, running his fingers through Thomas’s soft blonde hair. Thomas pulled back slightly and let out a little gasp. James caught his lips again before he could say anything, this time forcing his tongue inside. Thomas let him, moaning and pulling himself closer to James, jerking the sheets off of them both.  
James kissed and kissed him, couldn’t stop kissing him. Kissed his lips and his jaw line and his throat. Memories came to him automatically of small special things; he licked Thomas’s earlobe, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from him. He was pulling Thomas’s shirt off, touching and kissing all the skin he could, revisiting every curve and line with his lips and mouth. He rubbed the erection growing in Thomas’s pants, then grabbed Thomas’s hand and placed it over his own throbbing member. Thomas crept up to the top of his breeches as he had that evening on the Seahawk, fingers tickling, and this time James let him in. He moaned when Thomas grabbed a hold of him and started pulling.  
He pulled his face away from the other man’s and met his gaze. Seeing those blue eyes heavy with desire caused James’s erection to grow even harder. Thomas bit his bottom lip gently, tugging on it as he tugged on James’s erection. James moaned. He attacked Thomas’s lips again, sucked on his neck until it bruised even as Thomas encouraged him to keep it up.  
“James.”  
It escaped Thomas’s lips as a ragged whisper, desperate for a release. They had played this game before. James trailed softer kisses on the corners of his mouth. This lasted for a few more moments until at long last Thomas whispered the words, “Take me.”  
Without further ado James all but tore Thomas’s breeches off, revealing his rock-hard erection. He took off his own pants as Thomas lay on his side. James reached over to the bedside dresser and grabbed a bottle of oil, using it. Then he slid behind Thomas, one hand on Thomas’s bare hip as he positioned himself. He slid in slowly. Thomas let out a moan. James slid all the way in, then came almost all the way out. He felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders, felt the entire world drop away. He focused on the task at hand, sliding in and out, in and out, until the lubrication gave him a rhythm. Thomas slid his hand up behind James’s neck, urging him on. James pushed in harder, pumping him in shorter bursts. Thomas turned his head and their eyes met, lips finding each other briefly. James groaned; he was going to come any moment. He pumped in and out harder and quicker, grabbing Thomas’s hip and pulling him up along his erection. Thomas grabbed a fistful of James’s hair and pulled on it hard. James felt himself explode inside Thomas, felt it all throughout his entire being. Thomas let out a cry, his own body spasming and then shooting out his seed. James pushed himself inside Thomas one last time, as far as he could go, then pulled out and flopped over on his back.  
They remained motionless and breathless for some time. The only sounds were of their panting until Thomas rolled on his side, facing him. James did the same. Their hands found one another’s. Before he could stop it, tears came to James’s eyes. He cried and cried and cried and Thomas held him, not saying a word. He cried until he squeezed his eyes shut so hard they hurt. It was as if ten years of pain and guilt and frustration were erupting out of him at once and he didn’t have the off switch. When he finally stopped crying he started laughing.  
“Oh fuck me.”  
“I’m spent, darling,” came the reply.  
That, at least, brought James somewhat back to his senses. He laughed a genuine laugh this time. He calmed down and quickly became tired. He rolled over and pulled Thomas’s arm with him so that it was draped under his ribs and across his chest. He felt Thomas curl into him from behind, felt his chest against his shoulder blades and his stomach, his crotch, his legs, all the way down to his feet. He felt something thrumming inside him that he had not felt in a long time, an awareness of existence that both excited him and enticed him. It lingered for several minutes, but just as his eyes grew heavy a sinking feeling hit him. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t pretend that everything would be fine, that Thomas’s presence somehow chased away all of the demons. It wasn’t true. The longer James thought about this fact the worse he felt. The things he had done to get to this point simply weren’t justified. What was Just was that he suffered.

 

 

It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.  
\--Marcus Aurelius

 

II.

James peered through the spyglass. There had been a reason Eleanor seemed tense discussing the Urca de Lima’s spilt gold: the crew was nearly finished with gathering it up. It had been three weeks since a strong storm had crashed the lumbering treasure galleon, and scooping up five million dollars in coin wasn’t exactly a speed event. Even so James knew he had been too lazy developing a plan about procuring it from the Spanish.  
“It appears as though we’re running out of time.”  
James threw the man standing beside him, John Silver, a look. “Thank you for that information.”  
John Silver frowned. “Sorry. But now we also have that to deal with.”  
He flicked a wrist to the west end of the island, where a new escort ship sat in the bay, guarding the crew and the gold. It was a frigate, capable of moderate speed but built as a warship as well.  
“No doubt they’re going to send two more,” said James. “Two escorts and another for the gold. Another convoy.”  
“And something we can no longer combat against,” said Silver. James let out a breath and ran his palm along his beard, thinking.  
“An ambush, then, while the gold is still on the beach, yet we must stay out of sight of the frigate.”  
Silver nodded slowly, considering this plan. “Okay…”  
James started walking down the dune, still talking. “And we’ll need the support of an entire crew, not just the remainders of the Walrus.”  
“Yes, of course…”  
“And it must be done soon, before another ship arrives to load the gold.”  
“Sir, if I may—“  
James spun around. Silver stumbled not to run into him, fumbling with the spyglass.  
“You plan it out,” said James. “I’ve got other business to attend to.”  
He turned back around and kept walking, smile on his face as he pictured the baffled expression that must surely be gracing the young cook’s face. Silver had proved himself both shrewd and cunning when it came to thinking two steps ahead of everyone else, a quality James recognized. He could handle pulling this scheme together, James was confident. More to the point, James now knew, John wanted the gold more than he did.  
That thought unsettled him as he jumped back in a longboat with Mr. Dufresne and shoved off the beach. Silver had already made it clear that the gold was to be his way out of “all this,” as he had put it. James knew he should remain vigilant over the cook but for now it seemed they remained allies.  
The small island where the wreck lay (only a half an hour’s walk in any direction, James figured) was quite hilly and uneven. There plenty were of cove-like areas that shielded a few longboats from the roaming eyes of the Spanish frigate. They had managed to make several trips since discovering the wreck unnoticed, but James knew that time was almost over with; the convoy could appear at any time, and then the island’s small size would work against them. Any ship approaching would be able to see the entire island at a distance.  
His thoughts returned to the problem of the gold. He needed to talk with Thomas more about it. He didn’t want to incite a war between two towering empires but perhaps, if he managed to use the majority of the gold in legitimate enterprises he could show Boston and then London what Nassau was capable of.  
“Captain?”  
James blinked, coming out of his thoughts. Dufresne was asking him something.  
“Sorry. What?”  
“I was asking about the new fellow. You said you knew him?”  
James looked at his quartermaster. Dufresne had been their accountant, keeping records of everything they plundered, of their own ship’s cargo. He had a calculating mind. The recent mutiny was still fresh on both their minds, James knew. James knew Dufresne was fishing around for anything that might give him another reason to distrust their captain.  
“Yes. Not closely, but he served with me before I was kicked out of the navy.”  
Dufresne nodded and said no more.

 

Thomas gratefully put down his quill when the front door opened. He had been writing for several hours sporadically, creating a journal of his thoughts. He was careful not to write anything too incriminating of his identity, but it felt good to sort out his thoughts on paper. Even so he had grown bored. Again. He kept telling himself things would soon pick up, that James would begin training him and he wouldn’t have to waste another day wondering aimlessly around New Providence’s residential area and spending his nights listening to pirate gossip at Nassau’s tavern.  
James wiped his feet and took off his boots.  
“I went to see the gold. It’s only a matter of time now before it’s back on course to Spain. I’ve put a plan into place, though honestly I was hoping you could help me figure out exactly what the hell I’m going to do with it once I get it.”  
“I thought we might talk instead about my situation.”  
James sat down across from him at the table, dipping a towel into a bowlful of water and wiping the sweat from his face.  
“Your situation? What situation?”  
Thomas tried hard not to roll his eyes. He pushed his journal aside and spread his hands over the table top.  
“Do I really have to explain this again?”  
“You said you wanted to have purpose, to do something, so I gave you a job…”  
“As a repairman for the warehouses and the neighbor’s house, yes, I’m aware. And I thanked you, but that’s not what I meant and you know it.”  
“You can’t just jump into being a crew member, Thomas, not with your background.”  
“Which is exactly why I need you to train me.”  
James leaned back in his chair, looking defeated. He rubbed his eyes.  
“I can show you how to care for the land. You can grow the tomatoes, the fruit trees—“  
Thomas slammed fist down on the table hard enough to spill his bottle of ink. James jumped in his chair.  
“I don’t want to be a farmer, damnit! I want you to make me strong.”  
“You will be. Just wait until we get out to sea again—“  
“No.” The blonde cut him off, rising from his chair and pacing. “I don’t want to wait. That’s all I do since I’ve gotten here is wait. Wait for another repair job, wait for these fucking herbs to dry, wait for that neighbor boy to come throw stones at me on the porch, wait for you to come home.”  
He stopped, eyes fixed on the hearth across the room. James regarded him for a long time, not sure what he could say to calm him. Finally Thomas spoke again, voice quieter but no less angry.  
“Is this what it was like for her?”  
James looked up at him. “What do you mean?”  
“Did she whittle away her days in this house, cooking and cleaning for you while you were out on one of your grand adventures?”  
His words stung James, took him to a place he didn’t want to go. “Thomas…”  
“I made her promise, you know. She must have told you, that I made her promise that the two of you would look after one another. She was so loyal to me. What if you made her unhappy, yet she kept that promise just the same?”  
“Thomas…”  
Thomas ignored the warning in the other man’s tone. Hot tears stung his eyes as he gazed at the hearth.  
“Because I don’t think Miranda would have liked that. Not her, one so used to being involved in things. Did you try to appease her too? Maybe in the bedroom, when you were actually here. Was she happy at all here, or did she just pretend for your sake?”  
James shot out his chair, knocking it backwards. “I did the best I could! We lived as best we could! You were gone. You were dead, or don’t you remember? We all thought you were dead. No, it wasn’t all smiles and laughter and yes, there were times she was unhappy. You…haunted us. You haunted me, everyday. Try as we might, we couldn’t escape you. So yes, she struggled here while I was away. What the fuck did you expect? “  
He shouted the question at Thomas before turning on his heel and leaving, door slamming shut in his wake.

 

Thomas arrived at the bar while the sun still shone in the sky, casting long shadows over the bar’s patronage from its open doorway. He immediately ordered a stout drink and sat at the bar itself, ignoring the tables and most of the other men there. He threw back the dark amber liquid and swallowed. It was slightly spiced but not altogether different from the brandy he had been used to. He finished his first glass quickly; he wanted to feel the burn, wanted his thoughts to become clouded.  
He shouldn’t have said those things to James. He had pushed the knife in a bit too deep, he knew. Yet he must have spoken truth because he had gravely upset his lover. Nevertheless he had been callous to speak such things about he and Miranda. After all, what had he expected? Life was bound to be difficult for them, all things considered. You haunted me. James’s words now haunted his thoughts. He took another drink. No. He may have opened his mouth too much but his own situation hadn’t changed. The fact was James was being stubborn and nonsensical by not teaching him how to defend himself. Thomas raised his head to look around the bar as more men came in after the sun set. They all looked like they had been in their fair share of brawls. They carried their swords and pistols around confidently, looked like they owned this place. How out of place Thomas realized he must have looked; the gentile blonde with his soft face and eyes. Did James really think he could protect Thomas all the time, like he was some sort of invalid?  
It wasn’t long before two men joined him at the bar, ordering their drinks and talking amongst themselves. Thomas overheard snippets about their time out at sea. They complained for a while about little things…their ship’s cook, an annoying crew member and how the newest among them still got seasick. That subject caused them to take notice of Thomas.  
“’Ey, you there.”  
Thomas turned. The man who sat nearest to him had spoken. His long, wavy hair was up in a ponytail, with several unkempt locks hanging down in his face. A scar ran from the corner of his mouth to the tip of his left ear.  
“Haven’t seen you ‘round here before. You got a crew?”  
Thomas sat his drink down. “Yes. I’m with Captain Flint.”  
The man feigned being impressed, his eyes as big as saucers. “Oh, you ‘ear that, Jonesy? He’s with Flint.”  
‘Jonesy,’ sitting on the other side of his companion, leaned forward and raised his glass. “Well shit in me hat, Bruce. Well then, here’s to you sir, and your crazy captain’s quest for gold.”  
The two men laughed, clinking their glasses together. Thomas regarded them distastefully, then grabbed his own drink and moved to leave. Bruce’s hand shot out and grabbed him.  
“Now, now, I apologize. Me an’ Jones have to give you a hard time. See we’re with the Ranger and Captain Vane and we don’t much like Captain Flint.”  
“I see,” said Thomas, forcing a smile. “Well all’s forgiven then. Now if you don’t mind I’ll be on my way.”  
“Fine,” said Jones. He turned to Bruce and pretended to whisper. “He don’t look like he could stand to go a round against woman’s slap.”  
The men burst out in fresh laughter, hard and coarse. Their words went right through Thomas. He felt the heat rising to his cheeks as he spun around to face them.  
“Take that back, sir,” he demanded, his hand on Jones’s arm. He looked the pirate in the eyes, furious. Jones’s smile faded.  
“Take you bloody hand off me first.”  
“Take. It. Back.”  
Jones ripped his arm free and punched Thomas square in the jaw. Thomas reeled backwards into Bruce, who shoved him on the floor. Thomas leapt up and punched Bruce once, twice, in the gut before Jones tackled him. Thomas pushed against him until they both fell backwards into a table. Eleanor Guthrie burst through the double doors to the back of the bar.  
“Get the fuck out, all of you.”

 

The knock at the door jarred James from his book. He got up from the couch and answered it. Two of his crew were carrying a limp form between them.  
“He insisted we bring him here,” said Hardwick, the ship’s boson. His companion, Rodgers, nodded. “Two of Vane’s asshole crew got him in the bar. We tried taking him to the brothel, let one of the girls patch him up, but he wouldn’t have it.”  
James ushered them inside. He pushed up on the limp form’s chin. His face was bloodied and dirty, one eye swollen shut. James took him from the men.  
“I’ve got him. Thank you.”  
The men nodded, apologizing again for their intrusion before taking their leave. James stepped over Thomas and glanced around the front of the house. No one else was around. He shut the door and picked up Thomas, dragging him to the couch. Thomas moaned, opening his one good eye. James ran a hand through his hair, ripping out his hair band.  
“Fuck. Jesus God, Thomas.”  
Thomas struggled to sit up, wincing and crying out. James rushed over to the kitchen and got a bowl of water, some gauze, and some ointment Miranda kept in the cabinets. By the time he returned Thomas was sitting up, though favoring his ribs. James had to cut off his shirt with a kitchen knife. He winced at the sight.  
“They found my weakness,” said Thomas. “My side hasn’t healed from…from the asylum.”  
He started coughing. James softly told him to be still while he cleaned his wounds.  
“How the fuck did this start?” he asked at length.  
“They antagonized me. I attacked first.”  
James looked up at him sharply. “What on earth for?”  
Thomas looked away. “What does it matter?”  
“There’s too much dirt,” said James. “You need a bath before I can treat this.”  
He filled up the metal tub housed in the back of the house with water. He helped Thomas into the room. Thomas pushed him away when James started to fuss with the rest of his clothes.  
“I’ve got it. Just…let me be.”  
His words were cold. James nodded and left the room. He scrubbed Thomas’s blood out of his own clothes, then flopped down on the bed and stared upward.

 

The next morning James awoke to find Thomas still asleep beside him, back and chest wrapped in thick gauze, dried blood on the white cloth. There were bruises all along his arm. James propped himself up on an elbow and very softly kissed his arm, trailing his fingers along Thomas’s back, inspecting the damage. His ribs had taken the worst damage of course, still injured from where the Frenchman had assaulted him back in Stonehenge. That had not been James’s fault, but perhaps this had. The same sinking feeling that he kept experiencing hit him again. Thomas stirred, turning over and wincing.  
“Careful,” James said.  
Thomas carefully made it on his back. He looked at James, who was relieved to see none of the cold anger that had been there the night before. Thomas raised his head enough to look at himself.  
“Oh fuck.”  
“Yes. I hope at least one of them got as lucky,” quipped James.  
“I bloodied his nose, I think,” replied Thomas. Soft laughter.  
“Please, make me strong,” Thomas said, looking intently at James. James bent forward and kissed him. He should not have, but for Thomas’s sake he did.  
“All right. When you’re healed,” he replied.

 

John Silver sat down across from James on the lower floor of the brothel.  
“I’ve got it,” he said with a triumphant grin.  
James had been going over the Seahawk’s manifest and trying to memorize the new ship’s specifics like weight and tonnage and how much it would cost to repair that leaking part of the wall he’d discovered recently. He sat in here from time to time when he and his crew had downtime. The women approached him of course, always with the pretense of filling his glass, to which James always replied just the actual glass, please, and thank you but not today. By now most of them knew about Miranda and so they didn’t wonder at his lack of interest too much. How long that would last, he didn’t know.  
For now, he looked up from the manifest and focused on the dark-haired, suntanned cook before him and his idiotic grin.  
“Well go on,” he said.  
Silver slid closer to him, glancing around to make certain no one was paying attention.  
“I figure we’ve got about two days, three at most, before the gold is completely shoveled off the beach. That means the convoy will be arriving at any time now. Our best chance is tonight. Don’t worry, I’ve already informed Mr. Dufresne of the plan. He concurred. Two longboats, full of our best fighters—which you’ll choose of course—will alight on the beach after dark from the south side cove, the most concealed place…”  
“That cove is full of sharp rocks. More than one longboat will get cut to shreds.”  
Silver frowned. “One longboat then. The other can pull up on the steep side of the cove. A steep hill there but doable.” He stopped, waiting for approval. James nodded, waving his hand.  
“Go on.”  
“So, obviously we can’t take our own ship to load the gold, so we must take it, chest by chest, to the longboats. Fill them to capacity with just one man to row back here at a specific place, then go back to the island for another load. We’ll end up with a two boat, floating assembly line of gold, like ants. It will take all bloody night to finish, but I don’t see another way that won’t alert the navy.”  
Silver finished in a huff and looked up at his captain, eyes eager.  
James leaned back, stroking his beard.  
“All of this assumes there’s only the one ship watching the beach. You need scouts…”  
Silver nodded. “Dufresne said he would pick them out.”  
“And the Spanish on the beach?”  
“Take them from behind. A good old fashioned ambush, like you said.”  
James didn’t reply for several moments. Finally he sat up slowly as one of the prostitutes poured him another drink.  
“No.”  
Silver arched an eyebrow at him. “No?”  
“No killing. I don’t want anyone dead unless it’s necessary.”  
“I can assure you, pulling this off will make it necessary—“  
“No.” James said the word slowly and with finality. “Knock them out, disable them, but leave them alive. What do you think would happen if that frigate were to discover over a dozen dead Spanish on that island, so close to here? If we leave them alive they’ll still be provoked, but they won’t come after New Providence.”  
Silver sighed, frustrated. “All right. But that’s going to make it harder.”  
“Then I suggest you start as soon as the sun sets.”  
“Wait a minute. Where are you going to be?”  
“Here. I have pressing business with Ms. Guthrie. Once the gold gets to Nassau it must be hidden immediately, lest any of the other crews gets wind of what’s going on. I should supervise that.”  
Now Silver looked at him doubtfully, as James knew he would. It sounded like an excuse not to take any risk, but James looked at John steadily. They both knew James was not the one who backed down from a fight. Silver, on the other hand, had avoided such a risk for as long as James had known him.  
“It’s your turn to get your hands dirty,” said James.  
Silver nodded reluctantly. “Fine. But if I die, good luck getting someone else to do your bidding.”  
James gave him a toothy grin at that. Silver frowned at him and took his leave.

 

That evening as the sun set James, Jonas and Kensey reached the agreed- upon location where the gold would be delivered. James had chosen the two men because they had been two of the few who had dissented against the mutiny against their captain a few weeks ago.  
The area was away from the hustle and bustle of the harbor, nestled between a rock cliff and an outcropping of rocks large enough to hide the small group from prying eyes. Just an empty, unused portion of beach. Activity on the rest of the beach was beginning to die down, and as James did another survey of their surroundings he was satisfied that after night fell even wondering eyes wouldn’t be able to make them out, especially with the closest businesses over one hundred yards away. Setting above them over the rock cliffs was a plantation house (he couldn’t remember the owner’s name) and property, but the house and slave houses were back away from the cliff side where no one could see them.  
James met briefly with Silver, who James could tell was nervous but was hiding it rather well. That eased his nerves somewhat. He gave Silver the go ahead and he set off in one of two longboats once the sun was completely out of the sky and all had turned into a deep twilight.  
With nothing to do but wait for the first shipment of gold Jonas and Kensey set up a dice game on top of an empty rum barrel just out of the tide’s reach. The tide was an important factor; it was just reaching the peak of high tide, which meant that by sunrise it would be going out again. James only hoped they were finished by then, otherwise the trek to the unused warehouse Eleanor had promised would take longer.  
James made himself a small encampment of sorts with a plain wooden chair and a discarded cargo box he’d taken from the tavern earlier. He propped a dark, obtuse-shaped rum bottle on top of the box, fingers curled around it as he gazed out into the black ocean, its surface glittering silver from the light of a half moon. He worried about it being too bright for his men on the island, conversely he worried also about the clouds moving in from the east. He worried about the crew’s ability to not kill any of the Spanish. Mostly he worried about Thomas.  
After a very long thirty or so minutes the first longboat appeared in the distance. The three men rushed quietly to it. They had made a gurney of sorts out of two wooden poles and thick canvas to load the heavy, ornate chests onto. James had to open the chest, had to see the gold there with his own eyes, even if just for a brief few seconds. It was there, pounds and pounds of it crammed into the chest, glistening even in the darkness. He heard Jonas and Kensey mutter in awe at the sight of it before he closed the chest and thumped its top. The two men quickly picked up the ends of the gurney and started dragging it across the sand.  
The second boat arrived shortly thereafter, just as Jonas and Kensey returned. The process was repeated, quicker this time. James made up his mind to keep checking the loads. He didn’t trust all of his crew, and he sure as hell didn’t trust Silver.  
Eleanor Guthrie arrived around midnight. James had drawn his sword as the cloaked figure approached the beach, but as it neared he recognized her. Once she was behind the outcropping of rock Eleanor removed her hood.  
“Sorry I’m late. A dispute over warehouse space arose.”  
“At this hour?”  
“They were drunk. How is it going?”  
She gazed out to sea with him as they spoke.  
“Smoothly so far. Jonas and Kensey have to move their asses but they’re strong bodied. No sign of trouble so far.”  
“And I trust the warehouse’s conditions are suitable?”  
“It’s bloody falling apart and Kensey says it smells like rat shit, but yes, it works.”  
He looked at her sideways and smirked as he said it. She matched his grin before turning her eyes back out to sea. They waited mostly in silence until the next load arrived. Eleanor went with him down the beach to see for herself. Together they estimated the weight of the loads into pounds. Eleanor kept a record of each load. They whittled away the early morning hours in such a fashion, speaking here and there about what their next steps ought to be and how best to guard the gold without anyone becoming suspicious.  
Eventually however James was struggling to stay awake as the hour hit three. He offered Eleanor the remainder of the rum, which she finished, sitting down next to him on the empty cargo box.  
“How’s that new fellow working out for you? Thomas, was his name?”  
James nodded casually. “He’s good.”  
“I was wondering if he needed lodgings. I saw the bar fight and heard he’d wanted to go to your house.”  
James caught the questioning in her tone.  
“He’s an old acquaintance so I let him stay. He’s already found lodgings at the inn.”  
His answers were curt, he knew, but he needed Eleanor to believe him. She said nothing but nodded, eyes to the horizon. James looked at her sideways again, feeling those eyes were not satisfied with his answer.  
The next load appeared from around the cliff side. James shook his head and stood, trying to wake himself up. He grew concerned when he saw it was Silver who was in the boat. He began speaking excitedly to Jonas and Kensey. James and Eleanor ran down to meet them. Silver, breathless from rowing, spoke breathlessly to his captain.  
“We…had to stop. They came…from the northeast, bloody quick.”  
“Who?” James demanded.  
“The convoy,” answered Silver gravely.  
Eleanor hissed. “Fuck.”  
“Where’s the second boat?” asked James.  
“Coming. Just behind me. We couldn’t take another chest or we wouldn’t be able to get the crew off the island.”  
“All right. Let’s hurry the fuck up and get this to the warehouse—“  
“James.”  
Eleanor elbowed him just as Silver was also looking behind the captain. James whirled around.  
“Hello? Is something the matter out there? It’s not the British is it?”  
A man was coming towards them from the island’s interior. He was not a pirate but a civilian, fully dressed at this late hour. James’s chest tightened. He had clearly seen all of them there, could see the chest sitting on the gurney as well as the two crew members standing there, frozen in uncertainty. Eleanor took over.  
“Excuse me, sir, can I help you?” She trekked up the beach quickly, cutting off the man’s approach.  
“Ms. Guthrie! I’m sorry,” said the man, craning his neck to look at the chest over her body.  
“I never sleep well, you see, so I’m usually up at his hour, taking a nightly stroll. I thought maybe you all had spotted trouble in the waters. I didn’t think you would be down here otherwise at this hour, ma’am.”  
“I’m sorry, Mr.—“  
“Kenway, ma’am.”  
James’s eye twitched. He held one hand up to Jonas and Kensey behind him, steadying them. His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword.  
Eleanor gently grabbed the man’s arm and walked him back up the beach as she spoke.  
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry, Mr.Kenway. My companions and I were simply surveying this part of the island and deciding how to best defend the interior…”  
Her voice faded from James’s hearing as they walked but he knew her story wouldn’t convince the man. He started following them at a distance. When Eleanor parted ways with him and turned back around, her eyes met James’s and the dubious look on her face was his answer to the problem. They passed each other silently. The man had reached the grass again, turning back again to see the beach. James pretended to go towards town, then swerved as soon as the man turned towards the island again. He rushed in, pulling out his sword. The sound caused the man to turn again. James swung fast and hard. His blade sliced across the man’s throat, tearing into his jugular. Blood spurted out over James’s face as Kenway fell to his knees, hands covering his torn throat in vain as a crimson tide gushed out. He fell down dead.  
James stared down at him, heart pounding in his chest, throbbing in his wrists. Unwanted images shot into his mind of killing the awakened man on board the Ucra de Lima, of the horrid sound of Mr. Gates’s neck snapping, of the rivers of blood he had created from Alfred Hamilton and his innocent wife on board the Maria Aleyne, a woman as innocent as this man had been. He gritted his teeth, hand rising to clutch at his chest.  
“Captain?”  
Eleanor had snuck up on him. He blinked, tried to shake the thoughts from his mind, but the rising panic they had caused lingered.  
He turned around and wiped the blood from his blade. She stood beside him and leaned over to look at the body.  
“You knew him?” he asked, hoping his voice didn’t shake.  
She sighed. “I believe he was neighbors with Mr. Richardson, the owner of that plantation up over the cliffs. Fuck. I’ll take care of it. Get me Mr. Silver. You need to secure that gold.”  
The second longboat reached the shore safely with the captain’s remaining crew members just as James, Jonas, and Kensey returned from their last trip to the warehouse. James had gone ahead and given the two men their share of the gold, plus a bonus for keeping quiet about its location. He made it clear to them that if anyone stole any of it he would know who had told. They were to keep the final location of the Urca gold a secret from the rest of the crew, something that took Mr. Dufresne took a great deal of explaining and convincing the crew was the right thing to do until they were ready to divide it up.  
After getting rid of the wondering Mr. Kenway (James didn’t ask how), Silver returned and they estimated they had slightly less than half of the total five million pieces of eight. James told him he would need to help Dufresne keep the crew from getting too impatient about their shares. By the time the sky began to lighten James was in a state. He was exhausted but his heart was pounding as he got on his horse to return home. Halfway there he thought again of the civilian he’d slew, and again unbidden images of all the other deaths he’d been responsible for flashed through his mind. He slowed the horse as the world began to tilt and spin around him. His breath came in short gasps. Was he having a heart attack? He felt he deserved one at this point.  
James struggled to regain focus but it wouldn’t come. He finally dismounted and half sat, half fell to the ground. Gradually he was able to catch his breath, heartbeat coming down. He was covered in a cold sweat, the kind that he woke from his nightmares covered in. James sat there for a long time on the edge of the road. His horse whinnied, stomping its hooves and no doubt wondering why they were not moving forward.  
Moving forward. James sneered to himself when he thought of the phrase. He thought he had been moving forward finally when they set sail to retrieve Thomas. He thought he would finally attain some measure of happiness once his friend and lover was returned to him, but that had been a lie—a delusion—he know knew. He could never, would never, move forward.  
He dug out a scrap piece of parchment from the riding sack and wrote haphazardly on it with a piece of charcoal and planted it on the animal. Then he slapped the horse and it took off down the road. The animal had made the journey enough to know its way home. James turned from the road and wondered off it. As the world woke up around him he drifted further away from it, into an empty field that led into the deeper, wooded interior of the island. It was mostly uninhabited and James decided it was exactly where he needed to be, a place uninhabited for an uninhabitable man.

 

The note had been tied to the outside of the horse’s riding sack, flapping in the wind when Thomas had heard the galloping hooves outside and thought it was James returning at last. He was surprised when the horse was without a rider, even more surprised and confounded by the note attached to it:  
Thomas, I need some time. I’m going to take a walk. I don’t know when I’ll be back.  
–J.  
Thomas re-read the note several times. He looked all around him, half expecting James to be walking up the road. The horse whinnied and nudged him with its nose as if to say, he’s not here. Thomas crumbled the note up in his hands.  
“Damnit, James.”

 

He walked for hours on end, stopping only to relieve himself. The day grew hot and sticky; a typical Caribbean afternoon, and one he wasn’t used to away from the constant breeze of the beach. This far into New Providence there was no breeze, and the heat was oppressive. He stripped down to his linen shirt. His discarded his leather coat, then the thick belt at his waist as though they were disposable all along; he didn’t care. Soon every part of him was covered in sweat; it began trickling down and itching under the belt that sheathed his sword, so he took it off and dropped it as well. Now he was defenseless. He smiled bitterly to himself.  
As the day wore on he grew desperately thirsty. He ignored it as best he could and kept walking. He was a good walker despite what many people thought about seaman and their sea legs. His legs carried him on without rest through patch after patch of jungle trees. The majority of the thickest parts of New Providence’s jungles had been cleared for settlement, but what remained was here, in the wildest parts. There were plenty of natural lakes here as well but James ignored them. Finally even his legs grew tired, and he collapsed in the shade of a banana tree, its fruit gone in the winter season but its giant leaves providing some respite from the unrelenting sun. He leaned against it and closed his eyes. He drifted in and out of sleep. As the sun began to sink in the sky he lay down, feeling numb. He slept more soundly. When he woke late in the night he simply sat up against the tree again and stared off into the distance.  
The next day he continued his trek, going nowhere and in search of nothing. His stomach was growling constantly now, making him feel sick with its emptiness. He tripped over a bottle in the woods. He pulled it out of the dirt to discover it was half full of liquor, still corked, the remnants of another’s trek some time ago. He uncorked it and swung it back, taking a long drink. It burned all the way down. He started walking again until he fell into a routine of walking and drinking, walking and drinking. He finished the bottle quickly, enjoying his own drunkenness and the drink’s ability to cloud his senses and dull his mind. But the heat of the day took its toll and he vomited most of it back up. He dry heaved after that until he thought he might pass out. He fell to the ground again and lay there, inebriated and clutching his stomach until at long last he did pass out.  
He awoke later that night. This time he decided to walk under the cover of darkness and out of the sun. He still felt ill. His stomach was in knots, which he ignored as best he could, as he was getting good at ignoring everything else up to this point. He thought perhaps he had started walking in circles. He knew he wasn’t walking a straight line anymore, and eventually all the vegetation looked the same to him. That idea fell into his plan to go nowhere, so he stopped caring about that too.  
Sometime in the small hours of the night he came to another lake. He heard distant barking coming from the other side of it. He struggled to see. He could just make out a fast-moving shadow running up and down the edge of the water. A dog. He watched it dully as he walked around the lake. Gradually the dog came loping towards him, sniffing everything around it. James didn’t know he’d been seen until he heard a low growl very close to him. He looked up. The dog—a good sized animal with pointed ears and a curling tail—was in full defense position, hackles raised.  
James remembered having a dog as a small boy in London and of course there were plenty of them roaming around the streets in Nassau, but he had never encountered one this aggressive before. It must have been mistreated at some point—or it was diseased. James turned to walk back the way he had come. He glanced back to see the animal charging towards him, barking like an enraged beast. James saw a fallen branch by the water. He lunged for it. It was wet, slippery. He dropped it. He let out a cry as he slipped reaching for the branch. The dog jumped at him, grabbing his shirt sleeve and viciously shaking his head back and forth. The force of the motion caused the pirate captain’s entire body to jostle along with the dog. He reached again for the branch and got a hold of it just as the dog seemed to realize it hadn’t bit into flesh yet and grabbed a hold of James’s forearm, teeth crunching down over his flesh. James screamed, fist clamping around the branch as he brought it over his body and down hard over the dog’s head.  
A yelp escaped the dog’s mouth but it didn’t let go of James’s arm. James felt himself being cut up as the dog’s sharp canines worked their way into his flesh. He hit the animal again and again until it let go of his arm. He scrambled to his feet, sliding back into the water. He caught himself as the dog lunged at him again. James hit him square in the ribs. They both went down into the water. The lake got deep quickly and James struggled to find his footing on the muddy bottom. The dog struggled as well, trying to swim and attack him at the same time. It grabbed a hold of the branch and pulled hard, almost jerking it out of James’s grasp. He held on, but then an idea came to him. He released the branch abruptly and tackled the dog, wrapping his arms around the upper half of its body and squeezing. The dog dropped the branch and thrashed wildly, growling and trying to turn its head far enough to grab James again. James pulled backwards with all his might, sending both them further into the lake. He held the dog and pushed it down. He could feel all of the animal’s muscles and bone and sinew working against him, just as James could feel his own body fighting to survive. Finally he had the beast’s head under the water. He managed to clamp his legs around the rest of its body and together they both sank under the water.  
He held on until the animal’s struggling subsided, its chest going flat. James released it, feeling it drop away from him. He looked up and opened his eyes in the murky water. He could make out next to nothing, only very dim moonlight shining down through the lake. The world around him was full of nothing; he could not even see the dog’s body. He needed air. His body began to drift up very slowly of its own accord, too slowly. His lungs began to burn. It reminded him of the burn of the liquor from the previous day. This burning, however, didn’t come with the mind numbing effects of the alcohol. He closed his eyes, feeling terrified of the black world around him, and he kicked his arms and legs, fighting to reach the surface. He broke through, taking in a huge gulp of air. He swam to shore and pushed himself up and out of the lake. He collapsed in the mud and reeds, sputtering water out of his lungs, eyes stinging and burning. A new sensation was also beginning to burn—his forearm. James lifted his head to look at it and winced. Blood was everywhere and still coming out of his arm. There were several deeper wounds hidden amongst the smaller ones that covered his flesh from the wrist all the way to his elbow. The gashes were grotesque and filled with dark pools of blood. He imagined the lake in the daytime, also filled with his blood.  
James scrambled to his feet and out of the thick green reeds and into open land again. He tried ripping off a sleeve of his shirt for a bandage but it was too wet. Instead he tore off his shirt and wrapped it as tightly as he could over the worst of the gashes. The pain was growing steadily. He clutched his arm to his chest and started walking.

 

When James reached his property line from the back of the house it was later the next evening. He didn’t know how far he had actually traversed; he figured around ten miles at the most, and some of that had been in circles, no doubt. Now, as the burning sun finally dipped below the tree line, James struggled to keep walking. His vision was blurry and he felt cold. He had been losing blood steadily all day but had refused to look at his arm. He reached the hay cart sitting in the backyard, just past the chicken coop, and fell down against it. He sat there for some time, until it was nearly dark.  
Something roused him from his half sleep, something that didn’t sound right. Voices, talking to one another in hushed tones, from the edge of the corn field only a few yards out front. He was most likely hallucinating, he realized. Nevertheless, he crouched down and crept alongside the chicken coop until he was in view of the corn field. There, also crouched at its edge, were two men. He watched them, trying to recover his focus to identify. After a few minutes he was almost certain they were members of Captain Charles Vane’s crew. They were eyeing his house, gesturing and whispering. There intent was ill, he knew without a doubt. A wave of dizziness overcame him and he fell back against the coop with a soft thud. He cursed, gritting his teeth. He could not pass out now, not when Thomas was more than likely inside while these assholes were planning something.  
James gathered himself as best he could and pushed himself away from the coop. The men were coming out of the field now, slowly rising. As they did so they each pulled out daggers. James’s eyes twitched. He waited until they crept up to the front of the house, then he hurried along the side of the building and to its corner. He peered around the edge, watching as the two men looked inside the window, staying low. They exchanged looks. The man facing James nodded, his eyes determined. Then he kicked in the door and they both lunged inside. James was already moving, forcing his exhausted and sick body into swift action. He jumped up on the porch and tackled the last one inside, the force of his impact causing the man to fall into his companion. They both cried out.  
James thought he heard a third voice—Thomas’s—also shouting. He had no time to look. The man he’d tackled was already on his feet, grabbing the dagger he’d dropped and aiming it at James. James rolled out of the way and brought his leg back to kick at his shin. He cried out. James took advantage of his momentary lapse and climbed to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the first man scrambling to get out of the way as Thomas raised and fired a pistol.  
James’s eyes darted back to the man coming at him with the dagger again. Too slow. James had plenty of time to grab both of his wrists and slam him against the wall with a heavy thud. Even so the action took a toll on him. The dizziness returned and he felt his legs buckling. Another shot rang out and the man he was grappling with suddenly jerked, eyes wide, as a bullet tore through his shoulder.  
Moments later Thomas was behind him, pulling him away from the wall and to the floor with the other pirate, who was also nursing a wounded shoulder. He threw up his hands.  
“Please! Please! Don’t kill us! We’re done. We’re done,” he pleaded.  
James struggled to find his footing. He had to use the wall to stand. Thomas stood over the men, pistol pointed at them.  
“I ought to kill both of you,” he said. “You’re both petty enough to try and kill a man you fought with in a bar? Are you fucking children?”  
The second man sat up slowly. “We’re Vane’s men. If you kill us, you’ll have to answer to him.”  
James tried to grasp the conversation. He limped off the wall and looked down at them, his growing anger seeming to keep the dizziness at bay.  
“We won’t kill you,” James said, his voice like gravel. “But that doesn’t mean you’re leaving yet either. You’re Vane’s men, you say? Well guess who the fuck I am.” He sneered, bending down and grabbing a fistful of the pirate’s hair and pulling him to his feet.  
“Ow! Fuck! You’re Captain Flint! We didn’t know this was your house, we swear,” he replied in a shaky voice. Then he turned on his companion, kicking him on the floor.  
“You blundering idiot! This is Flint’s fucking house!”  
He and Thomas stripped both men—named Merryweather and Cruthers—of everything valuable they had on them. Thomas took Merryweather’s knee-high, brown leather boots for himself, as well as his dagger and sword. James took all the coin they had on them and a flask of rum, then sent them on their way. James gave them parting words at the door, looking at each of them with nothing short of murder in his eyes.  
“Tell Captain Vane that since you violated my privacy, I violated yours, though I let you off easy. If he has a problem with that, he knows where to find me.”  
He shut the door in their faces. When he turned around his legs finally gave way. Thomas rushed to him, helping him to the couch. He immediately unwrapped the bloodied shirt from the other man’s arm. A sharp intake of breath escaped him as he saw the damage.  
“You need a doctor right away. This is…” he trailed off, blue eyes flashing to James before deciding talking could wait. He went to the kitchen and returned moments later with ointment, water and fresh gauze. He treated James as best he could. Neither one of them spoke. When Thomas brought over a pitcher of water James took it from him and drank nearly half of it in one long dreg. That caused a coughing fit. Thomas forcefully removed the jug from his grip.  
“That’s enough. Now lie down for God’s sake. Is there a doctor in this place? Don’t fucking move.” James could hear the panic rising in his voice. He struggled to speak.  
“Eleanor,” he finally managed. “Get…Eleanor Guthrie.”  
When Thomas left James dared to look under the bandages on his arm. A red mangled mess. He felt nauseous. It passed, then everything faded away.

James’s left eye opened first. The right one felt sticky. Once both were open he blinked forcefully, lifting a hand to rub them. As the world came into focus Eleanor’s long blonde hair hung down over her face, looking at him.  
“Welcome back,” she said.  
James glanced down at himself. He was on his bed, fresh pair of breeches on. He felt clean. His wounds had been re-wrapped in thicker bandages, the red seeping through them much less now. Eleanor handed him a cup of water. He sat up and drank it, slowly this time.  
“I fetched Doctor McBride. He’s just left. He said you had a small fever, that you were half starved and dehydrated. And whatever did that to your arm…” she nodded down at his forearm, “…didn’t help matters.”  
James cleared this throat. “Where’s Thomas?”  
“He went to town with the doctor to get more ointment for your arm. He should be back shortly.”  
James was looking at her, baffled. “Why the hell are you here?”  
Eleanor threw him a look that was a mix between annoyance and amusement. “You sent for me. Well, you knew I would know the doctor, even in whatever delirium you were in. Thomas said it was urgent. I assumed it was about the gold, but when I arrived you weren’t exactly in a state to talk about the gold.”  
“I don’t remember asking for you,” James replied, sitting all the way up now. It felt odd, having her in his bed room, in his house. The relationship the two of them had was always strictly business, but he felt now it was drifting into the personal.  
Thomas had told her about the attack, which had spurred her interest into Thomas himself. She told James that Thomas mentioned that she was his only true ally in Nassau and that he therefore trusted her. James tried to shrug it off but Eleanor had caught on to something and wasn’t letting it go.  
“It’s clear to me that you trust Thomas at least as much as you claim to trust me,” she said, sitting beside him on the bed. “Surprising, coming from you. Which, if I may be so bold…?”  
“You may not,” James interrupted her.  
She sighed but didn’t stay silent for long.  
“Which,” she continued, looking at him warily, “means that either he’s proven himself to you as a valuable crew member in a record amount of time, or that you are more than just casual acquaintances.”  
“Eleanor, why the fuck does any of this matter to you?”  
She looked at him steadily, blue eyes and round, almost cherubic face offset by her strong will and words.  
“It matters because it seems as though, for you, your personal shit is affecting your business. The last thing we need right now is Charles Vane breathing down our necks. It’s the last thing I need for certain. If he even remotely suspects the gold is here…”  
“He won’t. He’s holed up in that damn fort, thinking he’s watching the world from up there when he can’t even see half the island.”  
Eleanor pressed her lips together and considered this. “For now, perhaps,” she said at length. “As for you…well you’re a fucking mess.”  
James nodded. “Thank you.”  
They both laughed after that, breaking the tension. Eleanor rose to take her leave. Something seemed to catch her attention on the floor against the wall. James followed her gaze by his dresser. There was nothing there, except for a pair of his boots and the boots Thomas had worn when he had first arrived.  
“What—“  
The question caught in this throat. The look on Eleanor’s face meant she recognized the boots as Thomas’s. He watched her face with dread as she put the pieces of the puzzle together in her mind. He said nothing but instead let out a sigh. Eleanor slowly sat back down beside him.  
“He’s staying here then.”  
“Yes.”  
After a stretch of silence she spoke again, softly. “Of all the people on this island, you have to explain yourself to me least of all, captain. We are allies, right now, are we not?”  
“Right now, being the key words,” he said.  
“Yes, true. But our goals have been intertwined for some time, and in that time we’ve gotten to know one another, even as we always stick to business. If Thomas is also an ally in this endeavor…” She trailed off and looked at him, hoping for an answer. He admired her careful choice of words. He hesitated, then nodded his answer.  
“…then we could use all the help we can get. Bring him up to speed on the situation—“  
“He is the reason for the situation, Eleanor.”  
Eleanor stopped and raised an eyebrow. James looked up at her.  
“He and I and Ms. Barlow—Miranda—all planned out legitimizing and re-colonizing Nassau a decade ago, before I was a pirate. It was Thomas’s idea. It was his dream. Then it was mine. It was something we wanted to build…together.”  
Eleanor looked at him quizzically. James met her gaze, dropping his mask for once and letting her see what the statement meant to him—what Thomas meant to him. She looked back at the boots again. He waited patiently, and then finally he saw as the entire truth dawned on her face.  
“I know you’re no fool,” he said. “I know you had an affair with the prostitute, Max. I know you loved her.”  
Eleanor narrowed her eyes. “What do you know?” she snapped. He continued, ignoring her warning tone.  
“The day I and Billy and Mr. Gates came to you for the Urca’s schedule and you took us to her, I remember that look on your face when we opened the door. You were fighting so hard to make a choice. You didn’t weep but I saw the tears, and I saw her. You loved her.”  
Eleanor looked away from him; he knew he’d forced her thoughts where she didn’t want them to be but knew he had been right. When she turned back around she had composed herself.  
“Something else we have in common,” she said. “Along with all the other things we don’t give a damn about in proper society, who we love is among them.”  
She was about to speak again but stopped. They fell into silence; looking at each other with what James felt was a new understanding.

James recounted to Thomas his fight with the wild dog, but aside from a few scant off-handed replies to his inquiries James was quiet.  
Thomas spent the next few days away from James. He spoke with their neighbors and got one of the neighboring farm hands who was practiced in fencing to practice with him. The man also seemed to have a basic knowledge of how the pirates fought, which he was happy to show to Thomas. Thomas also spent time making a weight bar of sorts out of a plank. He sanded it down until it was nearly cylindrical in shape, then nailed it between the door frame of the back door, not bothering to say a single word about it to James as he spent long minutes hammering. James noticed of course but did not ask.  
Thomas tested him more and more, going off into town and proclaiming he had found crew members to teach him to fight, using actual swords and daggers. James had frowned at him. Hardly the reaction a normal person would have to such sarcasm, Thomas knew. Nor did James seem to care when he told him the rising concerns Ms. Guthrie and the crew were having about the warehouse’s roof and what should happen to the gold if the rainy season began, as it was supposed to any day now.  
The longer Thomas observed James, the more concerned he became. James refused to speak about anything other than the gold or what was for dinner. Thomas took out his frustrations fencing or using the weight bar. He was using it more and more often. It felt good to be building himself up, slow as the process was. He wished for a word from James, some guidance, but the pirate captain was not himself. He cloistered himself up in the bedroom, reading. Sometimes Thomas walked by and swore James was not even reading whatever book was in front of him, merely pretending to; his eyes were far away.  
It all came to head when Thomas returned early from one of his outings to town, gathering supplies for the house that James had been neglecting. Thomas stocked up the kitchen and finished repairs to the dining table leg that had been broken during their scuffle with Vane’s men. The door to the wash room was closed. Thomas assumed James was occupying it so he decided to take a respite on the couch. When he woke the house was still quiet, the door to the bath room still shut. He checked the clock. It had been well over two hours since he’d laid down. He knocked on the wash room door. No answer.  
“James? What on earth are you doing? Is the tub leaking again?”  
He cautiously cracked open the door. No sound still. Thomas swung the door open. The bath tub was full of water. James still sat in it, clothes thrown haphazardly on the floor, never looking up at Thomas but instead staring at his damaged arm, eyes far away. He’d taken all the bandages off. One of the deeper cuts had opened up. The water around him was light red. He didn’t look up or move even as Thomas came into the room, demanding what the hell he was doing. Only when Thomas grabbed his shoulder and shook him did James seem to snap back into himself, body jerking to attention and away from the other man’s touch.  
“God damn you, stop it!”  
The words were shouted at Thomas, filled with unnecessary venom and pain. James turned away from him, curling his arms over his knees, sneer on his lips. Thomas squatted down to face him, sleeves of his shirt soaking in the cold water. James stared down at it, watching the red swirl around him. Thomas tried to keep his voice even.  
“What in God’s name is wrong? Why can’t you talk to me? Why won’t you do anything? Your crew needs you. I need you.”  
“No one needs me. Not anymore.” Red swirls around his knees.  
“Don’t be this way. Don’t shut yourself off from everyone and everything as if nothing matters to you when it does.”  
James could feel him close, could tell those blue eyes were trying desperately to capture his but James refused to look up.  
“You still don’t understand, do you?”  
“Understand what, exactly? That you’ve committed crimes, done things to survive and that I cannot forgive you for them? That you don’t want forgiveness from me? Fine. I won’t give it. Does that make you feel better?”  
The question was sarcastic, of course, laced with Thomas’s own anger.  
“It doesn’t matter anymore, if you forgive me or not. I can’t forgive myself.”  
He heard Thomas sigh, heard him get up and leave the room briefly, then return with a towel and set of clothes.  
“Get out of there and put on some clothes.” He held the towel out to him. James complied, slowly dragging himself up and out of the tub. Thomas stood there, not leaving. James shrugged and dried himself off and dressed. He wordlessly wondered into the bed room, dripping blood on the floor. Thomas followed him.  
“Leave me alone,” James repeated.  
“I don’t think I should. If you would just tell me what you’ve done it would help. Anything is better than this.”  
“I already told you, you don’t want to know the things I’ve done,” he said.  
Thomas stepped towards him. “Yes, I do. Don’t you dare tell me what I want and don’t want.”  
James dared a glance at him, his normally glistening green eyes obfuscated behind his brows. The suffering Thomas saw there was real, almost surreal, to him. James leaned against the white-washed wall, looking as though he wanted to curl into himself and disappear; his deep brows and chiseled jaw line no longer made him appear strong to Thomas but instead incredibly fragile. It frightened Thomas in a way he’d never felt with this man before. Perhaps it was best to acknowledge the truth.  
“This is not the James I thought I’d come to know,” Thomas said in a whisper, voice thick with emotion. He stepped forward, a couple of barely noticeable digits reaching out to touch his lover. James recoiled from the contact, face turned towards the wall.  
“This isn’t even James McGraw,” said Thomas.  
James turned until his back was to Thomas. It looked as though he the wall was supporting him now. Thomas forced himself not to wrap his arms around him, not to hold him and tell him how much he loved him.  
“That man is gone,” whispered James into the wall, palms splayed against it as though he surrendered. “I thought I was a shell before, with Miranda, but that wasn’t even close. Thomas…”  
His voice cracked. Thomas swallowed, forcing himself to wait patiently. He stood as straight as he could, hands clamped behind his back. It came from some part of his core being that told him he needed to fall back on being a gentleman, a nobleman in this moment.  
James turned his head until he could look at Thomas sideways, eyes moist.  
“I don’t deserve you. I can’t deserve you. I’ve betrayed everything you stood for. Can’t you see that? I’ve become the very thing…the very thing we were fighting against. The blood on my hands is too much to bare.”  
“Then let me bare it with you. I’m telling you I want to.”  
Thomas closed in; reaching out to James’s outstretched palm and intertwining their fingers. The pain in James’s eyes was almost unbearable.  
“Forgive me,” Thomas said in a raw voice. “I didn’t know how much you were hurting.”  
James slowly pulled his hand away. “I don’t deserve you,” he repeated, still unsure.  
“Talk to me. Please. Tell me about Mr. Gates, about Billy Bones. Tell me all of it.”  
A sob escaped James. He wiped angrily at his eyes, still avoiding eye contact, yet Thomas saw his words having an effect. He persisted.  
“I’m not here to judge you. You think all of this is because of you alone? You don’t think I haven’t hated myself, locked up with all of London’s lunatics, hating the fact that I pushed you, pushed all of us, into this idea? That I should have listened to you that day in the parlor when it was the just two of us, when you told me as friend that I should stop this foolish pursuit? You don’t think I haven’t replayed that over and over in my head? How differently things would have turned out for all three of us. You never would have had to stand up to my father. I put you in that position. And you defended me, but look at the cost. That is all on me.”  
James was looking at him now, sorrowful eyes realizing for the first time his lover’s own inner turmoil. Thomas let out a breath and closed in on him again.  
“Maybe neither one of us deserves the other. But what was it Marcus Aurelius said? ‘Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart’. We can talk about it later, if you like.”  
James closed his eyes, feeling the tears finally run their course. When he opened them again Thomas was touching his cheek, the warmth of his hand comforting the other man. He kissed James lightly. James still pulled away, unable to push away his feelings of unworthiness. Thomas persisted, moving to take off his shirt. James let him, being extra careful as he slid it away from James’s damaged arm. Thomas murmured about getting bandages. James sat down on the bed, not knowing what else to do. He let Thomas wrap the wound, eyes watching him the whole time. Whe he was done Thomas bent forward and kissed James again, harder this time. James let him undo his breeches. He kicked them off. Thomas pushed him back on the bed, hovering over him and looking into his face for so long James finally said, “Can I help you find something?”  
That, at least, got both of them smiling. That was all the encouragement Thomas needed. He slid out of his own clothes, pushing James back down when he tried to rise and dominate the situation.  
“Just relax,” said Thomas.  
James was reluctant at first, but eventually gave in to Thomas’s control, allowing him to rein kisses down his neck and chest and stomach and lower. James tried not to gasp when Thomas’s mouth closed in over him, giving him an instant erection. He sucked and pulled, tongue rolling over James’s head until finally James let out a moan, grabbing onto Thomas’s soft blonde hair. Thomas worked him after moment more then rose up and found his mouth. James eagerly kissed him, a touch of his own taste on Thomas’s lips. His erection grew harder, breath coming out in short gasps as Thomas reached down and stroked him while sucking on his neck. James rolled over on his side, almost ready to beg.  
Thomas grabbed the oil from the dresser and applied it to his fingers, then worked them gently inside of James. James moaned as soon as his fingers were inside; one, two, then three. Thomas wiggled them around. James felt his chest jump. He moaned again, his erection throbbing for release. Thomas continued kissing the side of his neck, his ear, grabbing his jaw and kissing his mouth. James’s throat was dry as he begged, “Thomas…” His whole body wriggled with the fingers inside him. Thomas withdrew them and pushed James onto his back. He lifted up slightly as Thomas positioned himself, then thrust his own erection inside James, jaw going slack and eyes closing as he did. James shifted his legs, spreading them wide as Thomas thrust into him. He looked at Thomas’s lidded eyes, then his own rolled back with pleasure. He opened them again, rocking in time with Thomas.  
“I fucking love you, so much,” he breathed. Thomas grinned, capturing his lips once more.  
James wanted it to go on forever. And it did, for a while. Thomas withdrew from him and they shifted positions again. James bent over the edge of the bed and Thomas was inside him again, pumping him in short bursts. Sweat broke out on James’s forehead. He reached behind him and grabbed Thomas’s ass, pushing on it in time with the rhythm they made together. Thomas draped himself over James possessively, kissing his shoulders. James reveled in it. Finally they moved in a clustered, hot mess to the wall. James knocked everything off the top of the small dresser and allowed himself to be hiked up on it. Thomas entered him and pumped him hard now. James almost couldn’t stand it. He grabbed a hold of himself and pulled frantically. He felt Thomas’s forehead against his own as they transcended into their most intimate embrace. In and out, harder and faster. James looked down. He was going to come any moment. When he did his seed exploded out of him. He gasped and moaned. Thomas kept up the pace until a few moments later he too came, his body shuddering as he pulled out of James. James caught his seed in his mouth. They moved back over to the bed, and lay there, breathless.

Samuel Tennet held up his arm to the wagon coming through the field. There was no road here, not even a path. He shifted his flintlock rifle so it hung in front of him, allowing the light from his lantern to show it to the approaching company.  
John Silver stopped the horse from atop the covered wagon.  
“Are you lost friend?” asked Samuel, approaching the wagon and holding up his lantern. Silver smiled, flashing his teeth.  
“Bloody hell,” he said, looking around drunkenly. “Have I gone so far from Main Street? My apologies, sir, I’ve had a few drinks.”  
Samuel waved at him impatiently.  
“Turn back around. Order from Ms. Guthrie. No one comes through.”  
“Yes, of course.”  
From the back of the wagon came the crack of a single gunshot. Samuel’s body jerked with the impact. He clutched at his chest as dark red spread over his brown coat. Silver shrugged.  
“Sorry.”  
Five of Captain Flint’s crew threw back the wagon’s canvas tarp and spilled out into the night.

 

The gunshot rang out in the night, giving Hanson Tennet a start. He buttoned his fly and pulled out his pistol, ducking in the underbrush and peering out. He watched wide-eyed as his brother fell and a group of men emerged from a wagon.  
“Fuck, no,” he whispered. “You bastards.”  
He cocked his pistol and fought desperately with the urge to start shooting. He aimed at the young, dark-haired man who seemed in charge of the ambush. He finally let his thumb drop from the cock and crept back through the brush, breaking out into a run once he was a good distance away from the group.

 

Silver let Mr. Jonas and Mr. Kensey take the lead. They assured the remaining three men that the booty was nearby. They trekked through a small swampy area before reaching a large but dilapidated building.  
“That’s it? You’re full of shit,” said one of the men. Silver shook his head, grinning like a madman.  
“Appearances are deceiving. It’s the perfect place to temporarily hide something you don’t want anyone to find. No one would ever consider it.”  
The building was one of Eleanor Guthrie’s warehouses. This one had been abandoned some time ago due to the swamp that had become too moist for the poorly treated wood. The building’s foundation had caved in two places; the wood was rotting and vines and all manner of plant life had grown to reclaim it as nature’s own.  
Silver and the others found the door and went inside.  
There, jutting out of the one stable corner left in the warehouse was no less than thirty or forty heavy chests. Eagerly Jonas and Kensey opened two of them, holding up a lantern to show the others the glistening gold coins packed inside. They clapped their hands together and let out soft whooping sounds in their excitement.  
“Now remember,” interjected Silver. “We take some off the top. We make it look like every chest we take from is still full. I’ll bring the wagon around.”

 

Thomas watched his opponent’s every move as they circled one another, swords at the ready. James moved in swiftly for a strike to Thomas’s legs. Thomas jumped to the side and swiped his sword defensively in response. James came at him again and again, continuing to aim low until Thomas directed most of his focus downward. James put one foot forward, sword taking aim at Thomas’s right leg and butted him in the face with his left elbow.  
“Ow!”  
Thomas spit out blood but didn’t drop his guard. He grinned at James instead. This time he attacked first, aiming high, then low and then high again. James blocked him but was losing ground. Thomas advanced until they were almost up against the back of the house. Then James ducked and rolled, breaking the pattern. He rolled close to Thomas and brought his blade up against Thomas’s shins before the other could jump back in time.  
“I’ve just cut your legs deep enough to send you to the ground,” said James, rising.  
It was still morning as they finished Thomas’s education in pirate sword play but already the day was hot and both men were tired.  
James had stripped down to only a pair of trousers and his boots but Thomas had refused to remove his shirt.  
“It’s so barbarous,” he’d said. That had amused James, who seemed to also find it funny to watch as Thomas sweated himself to death as they practiced. Now they were both feeling the heat and Thomas pumped water out from a well for both of them.  
“Your technique has improved,” said James, taking a long drink. “But you’re still not expecting the unexpected.”  
He raised a thumb to his lip where he’d hit Thomas with his elbow.  
“Any time your opponent can get to you physically means you’re on your last leg, especially for you.”  
“I know,” said Thomas. “I’m not strong enough. Yet,” he added with emphasis. “But I’m getting there.”  
“Well this isn’t a bad start,” said James, touching the small but noticeable amount of facial hair on the blonde’s chin and under his nose. The sound of horse’s hooves and a woman’s voice came from the front of the house. They sheathed their swords and walked around the side. Eleanor was standing on the porch, looking impatient.  
“Ms. Guthrie,” greeted Thomas. Eleanor took one look at the both of them—soaking wet, out of breath and one of them shirtless—and raised her eyebrows.  
“Hope I’m not keeping both of you from pressing business,” she said in a curious tone.  
James threw her a mildly disapproving look. Thomas blushed, looking thoroughly embarrassed.  
“I am teaching him how to fight like a pirate,” James said defensively.  
Eleanor nodded, but then all the mirth faded from her face.  
“Well he might need those skills sooner rather than later,” she replied. “You need to come to my office—both of you—right fucking away.”

 

James sat in Eleanor’s office, leaning forward and rubbing both sides of his temples. Eleanor stood tersely, arms crossed, beside a very angry Mr. Hanson Tenney, who kept muttering curses under his breath. Thomas stood next to James, looking between the two of them.  
“How many others?” asked James.  
“At least five others that came out of the wagon,” replied Tenney. “All your crew, I’d wager. And it was clear this one lad was leading them. Teeth as white as fucking snow. When you make your move, I’m going with you. I want to kill as many of those assholes as possible for what they did.”  
James let out a heavy sigh and looked up at Eleanor.  
“Silver. It’s got to be.”  
Eleanor made a face of disgust. “That fucking asshole. You should have done away with him long ago…”  
“Yes well I didn’t,” he interrupted heatedly. “And I can’t very well do so easily when he’s already pulled god knows how many men to his cause. I have to know exactly who all knows.”  
“You’ll need to know who’s still loyal to you just as quickly,” said Eleanor. “And what about the gold itself? It’s no longer safe.”  
“We have nowhere else to take it and even if we did, you know how long that process takes. Moving it again is too risky.”  
Silence permeated the room until James rose and hurled his chair across the room. “Fuck!”  
Thomas raised his hand. “Just…wait a minute. We need to find out the schism amongst the crew, yes? I can find out who remains loyal to Flint easily enough…”  
James looked at him dubiously and opened his mouth but Thomas went on. “I’m the newest member, so no one will assume I have loyalties so soon, least of all to you.”  
Thomas looked at James. James saw the seriousness, the determination behind those blue eyes; the kind of determination he was very familiar with. He nodded. “Go on.”  
“While I’m gathering that information, you—with Mr. Tenney’s help—can go about identifying the men who went to the warehouse. I’m assuming with your reputation you can…persuade…one or two to give up the names of all parties involved, yes?”  
Thomas’s emphasis on the word ‘persuade’ didn’t escape anyone’s notice. James flashed a look to Mr. Tenney, who nodded. “I did get a good enough look at one or two of them.”  
Thomas looked to Eleanor. “As for the gold, I would agree that it’s too risky to be moved again. Leave it there. Have it heavily guarded. If the location is as remote as you say it is, then no one will notice the guards, correct?”  
Eleanor nodded. “Yes but then that presents us with another problem…”  
“The men guarding it,” James finished for her.  
“But Mr. Tenney—“Thomas began.  
“Hanson and his brother were my two personal guards,” said Eleanor. “There’s no one left I would trust with such an assignment.”  
“I’ll handle it,” said James.  
“No.”  
James looked at his lover. Thomas’s eyes were as serious in the single word as anything else he had spoken thus far.  
“There’s no other option—“ James began.  
“Yes, there is. There’s always another option to that solution. Besides, if you wish to defend the gold then the rest of the crew will have to know its location regardless. Promise all of them enough pieces of eight for a year’s wages if they guard it without making the same mistake Mr. Silver made. Threaten them, terrify them, but let them live. More bodies mean more work to do,” Thomas added.  
James frowned. He stepped towards Thomas and said in a low voice, “I know this part of life here isn’t pleasant but it has to be done. You can’t begin to imagine the risk if such men are allowed to walk away with that knowledge…”  
Thomas peered around the side of James and addressed Eleanor.  
“May I have a moment to confer with the captain in private?”  
Eleanor, still looking tense, nodded. She and Mr. Tenney left the room.  
James and Thomas both started speaking at once.  
“Damnit, listen to me,” said Thomas.  
“This is the only way,” said James, becoming incensed. “You’re not in London anymore. There is no right and wrong way to everything anymore. These things…these things have to be done!”  
James was pleading with him, but Thomas saw through his argument.  
“You’re looking at me now as though you know you’re right. But I see the suffering there,” Thomas whispered. “You don’t want to do this. I know now, without a doubt, you never did, except perhaps with my father.”  
James turned away from him. “Doesn’t matter. It has to be done this way.”  
Thomas came around to face him. “No. It doesn’t,” he repeated impatiently. “Don’t you see what I’m trying to do, damn you? I’m trying to help you. Please, please do this my way. You must at least try, or why did you bother breaking me out of the asylum? Why did you bother bringing me here at all? So that we can live like ghosts? Love like ghosts?”  
James looked up at him, eyes filled with the suffering Thomas had witnessed earlier. He was struggling to bury it. He understood what Thomas wanted. In what was often referred to as civilized warfare, men faced each other on the battle field honestly, knowing they may die. What James proposed was the opposite of that. What he had done was the opposite of that. He saw the throat of the man he had sliced open only days ago flash through his mind. He looked at Thomas.  
“What the fuck do you want from me?”  
“I’ve just said it. But you’ve got to try.”  
James moved to touch him, touch his face, but stopped himself. The door to the room lay open; the hustle and bustle of the outside world not far away. Instead he sucked in a breath and nodded. Thomas smiled but James didn’t share it.  
“This will be dangerous no matter what,” he said. “If you really intend to be involved, then Eleanor was right. You’ll need to remember everything I’ve shown you. This will end in blood, no matter what.”

 

Thomas visited the beach and the brothel first, finding most of the crew in those two places. He waited until an opportune moment to speak to a few men alone arose, playing the part of the uncertain new member who had heard whispers about the Urca gold being on the island. He had spoken to three crew members who knew about the gold but were undecided and reluctant to speak to him. He was beginning to fear he would be found out when his efforts finally paid off. One of them had spoken to Jonas and had accepted the offer for taking the gold from Flint. Thomas quickly agreed that he too would go in on the plan; the look in the man’s eyes told him he would not be trusted otherwise.  
Thomas made his rounds late into the night, getting the men to approach each other about the gold lest someone noticed his chatty behavior. The festive atmosphere of the evening (no doubt because of the gold) as well as the alcohol allowed his machinations to go unnoticed. By the time Thomas had either spoken to or heard from no less than thirty crew members (he kept the numbers in his head), it was clear that the crew was split almost in half. Half of them seemed too afraid to cross their captain and both sides worried about how many crew were on the other side. This last bit of information Thomas digested slowly. It worked in their favor, he decided, that everyone still had enough sense to wait before making up their minds to actually take the gold. It was all a matter of timing. He had gotten the information soon enough, before anyone was ready to move on Silver’s plan. He finished his drink and left the brothel, eagerly making his way back to Eleanor’s office to wait for James to finish his part.

James Flint and Hanson Tenney had spent the better part of an hour searching in vain for either Silver or any of the men Tenney had seen emerging from the canvas. They had casually visited the brothel and the tavern, then to the inn.  
“We’re probably just missing them. It’s fucking busy tonight,” said Hanson, frustrated. Indeed, Nassau was remaining busy after dark; James guessed there were close to four entire pirate crews here tonight—an unfortunate coincidence.  
Now, as they stood at the edge of the butcher’s shop on Main Street, James stroked his beard, thinking. “Let’s circle back around the street again. You go left, I’ll go right. Do a quick pass of the brothel again, then met back here as soon as possible. I find it hard to believe one of us won’t come across one of them here tonight.”  
Luckily, when James met Mr. Tenney thirty minutes later in the same spot, he was waving for James to follow him, barely waiting for the other man to meet him.  
“Come on! He’s on the move,” said Hanson over his shoulder.  
They walked quickly but didn’t run; there were simply too many people. Hanson led them off Main Street and down an alley that separated two trading posts. Hanson pulled James down out of the light and pointed. At the other end of the alley, just underneath the moonlight, James could make out the familiar face of his master gunner, Mr. Kendrick. He was with a whore.  
James quietly crept towards the couple, Hanson right on his heels. Kendrick was too involved with the woman to pay any mind to the alley around him and James easily surprised him, knocking him to the ground. The whore started to scream but Hanson clamped a hand over her mouth and put coins in her purse.  
“For your trouble, ma’am,” he said, letting her go.  
James kicked Kendrick hard in the ribs. Kendrick cursed, looking up at his assailant with fury until he saw James’s face.  
“Captain…!”  
James reached down and jerked him up, slinging him against the wall and pressing his arm up against the master gunner’s Adam’s apple until Kendrick struggled to breathe.  
“Listen to me, Mr. Kendrick. I know you know about the Urca gold, and I know Mr. Silver has offered you to join him in his little coup.”  
Kendrick struggled to protest. James pressed his arm in harder.  
“Don’t deny it, or I’ll make this worse.”  
Kendrick finally managed something like a nod. James released his hold. Kendrick fell against the wall, gasping and coughing, face bright red.  
“I’m…I’m sorry sir…”  
“Shut up. I want the names of everyone else you know who is in league with Silver and the names of anyone who might join him. Now. If you forget even a single name, keep in mind that Mr. Tenney here saw all of you last night.”  
Kendrick looked from James to Hanson, his fear overwhelming his confusion. He stood up slowly and nodded, hands in the air when he saw James’s hand move to his sword hilt.  
“All right! I’ll tell you.”

 

“Where you born here, Ms. Guthrie?” Thomas asked, taking a sip of water from his glass. They sat in her office, awaiting the return of their other two confederates. The hour was just past eleven and the street noise from outside was finally lessening.  
“No,” said Eleanor, eyeing the water she had provided him. “I was born in London but I grew up here with my father and Mr. Scott.”  
“Ah, a fellow Londonite. You might be the first Englishwoman I’ve seen since Mrs. Hamilton.”  
Eleanor smiled, charmed, but then she looked at him quizzically. She pressed her lips together and leaned back in her chair.  
“Might I make a friendly suggestion to you, Thomas?”  
“Of course.”  
“Although I’m still unclear about your entire relationship to both Captain Flint and Ms. Hamilton...”  
Thomas looked up sharply when Eleanor emphasized Miranda’s title differently than he had, and realized his mistake too late.  
“…But I can tell that you are struggling to fit in here. You are a proper Englishman, sir, in a way that I have never been a proper Englishwoman, though my mother was and I remember her well. Regardless, you must stop using formal titles around here. If you intend to join James’s crew the next time they set sail, you’ll need to be…”  
She trailed off, thinking of the right words.  
“Less civilized?” he suggested, one eyebrow raised. Eleanor seemed genuinely unsure how to take that particular response.  
“Yes then,” she said softly. “But I can tell you, Thomas, that that word doesn’t have the same meaning as it does in England. Or Spain, or anywhere else for that matter.”  
“That ma’am, is something I have learned very quickly.”  
“Then you should know that this is civilization, just a different kind. Our polices, our laws, are different. Our dress may be more plain, our mannerisms different, but that doesn’t mean any of us are less than the assholes who sit on thrones or in fancy chairs and think they know how to run the world.”  
Thomas was looking at her intensely now, searching her face. Eleanor stopped, taking a drink from her own glass, filling it with rum.  
“Why are you telling me this, Eleanor?” he asked. She licked her lips again, thinking.  
“Because I know you care about James. I know he cares about you. I’ve discerned from your reference to Miranda as a married woman that either you knew her as such or that you are, in fact, Mr. Hamilton, her husband. I don’t know what the fuck happened between the three of you and I don’t care. What I do care about is this place, the same as James. And from what he’s told me, you care too. As such, I wanted to be transparent with you about that.”  
Thomas rubbed his lips with the back of his finger as she spoke.  
“You are every bit of the woman I’ve been told about,” he said at length with a wry smile. Eleanor nodded.  
“You could have just said so in the first place,” he added.  
Now it was Eleanor’s turn to smile. “I suppose I also wanted to help you in fitting in here. In fitting in with him,” she said in a careful tone.  
“Oh?”  
“I notice people. I observe them, pay attention to them when they think I’m otherwise occupied. It’s part of my job,” said Eleanor. “I notice how different you are from him, even when you’re the same. He was once like you, wasn’t he?”  
Thomas finished drinking his water and then reached to pour himself what she was drinking before he answered.  
“If you mean a proper Englishman, then no he was not. No more proper than I, or Miranda, or anyone. We all just hid our Selves from the world. But was he a bright student of the navy, someone whose realism went hand in hand with my idealism. The man he is now…”  
Thomas trailed off, staring into his glass. Eleanor watched him, face growing soft.  
“Perhaps he can be somebody new,” she said.  
Just then the doors opened and James and Hanson stepped inside. James related his information from Kendrick to them and Thomas told them all about his night with various crew members. None of them had seen or heard from John Silver. It was agreed that the three men needed to gather the loyal half of the crew and camp out at the warehouse as soon as possible to wait for Silver. In the morning, they would make their move.

They camped behind the west side of the warehouse, where the trees were thickest and anyone approaching from either the front or back of the warehouse would be spotted. After surveying the surrounding area and feeling satisfied there were no scouts from Silver about James ordered they cook their meat and in the light of day, then all fires were to be put out. He also made some of them put out their pipes. Grudgingly they agreed.  
“Even the smallest amount of smoke might tip Silver off,” he told them.  
Now they all waited, some taking turns watching not only for the approaching thieves but also keeping an eye on Eleanor’s hired help—three men who stood watch directly in front of the warehouse. When Silver approached, their presence would distract Silver while James and his men surprised them from the woods. James was watching the guards now, chewing on a bit of jerky and leaning against a tree where the guards could see him. They shifted nervously about, clearly uncomfortable under the captain’s glare. Thomas appeared beside him and looked from him to the guards.  
“I don’t think they like the extra attention,” he quipped. James looked at him out of the corner of his eye and offered him some jerky.  
“They know their place,” he replied. “Besides, my presence is also the only reason the crew’s own greed hasn’t overwhelmed them.”  
“In any event, it looks as though all is working out,” said Thomas. “No need for drastic measures, hmm?”  
James chewed on the jerky and looked at him with a tiny smile. “All right. You were right.”  
Thomas looked unsatisfied. James sighed and looked over his head.  
“Thank you.”  
Thomas smiled at him. “You are welcome.”  
James turned his attention to Thomas’s person. He was armed with a sword on the right side of his belt and a dagger on the left. A pistol hung below the dagger.  
“I think being armed to the teeth will at least get me started,” he said dryly, following James’s eyes.  
“Just make certain to stay by my side when it happens,” said James seriously. Thomas nodded. They locked eyes, unable to express anything more. James let himself be drawn in, let himself be mesmerized by that gaze once again. Then they broke away from one another and Thomas went to rejoin the others. James returned to leaning against the tree. The guards had been chattering quietly with one another. The third man guarding the rear had joined them. Now they saw James glaring at them again. He stepped forward, looking at the third man with daggers in his eyes.  
“The fuck are you doing? Get back over there,” he bellowed. The third man skittered away, mumbling apologies.

 

The sun traveled its ceaseless course across the sky, finally sinking below the trees and casting long shadows over the woods. With its descent the worst heat of the day also faded, although by now the men were increasingly uncomfortable. Dressed for battle and unable to fully relax, they looked restless. A few small fights broke out, which Mr. Dufresne quelled with little trouble. As dusk approached however they all quieted and ran last checks on their weapons. The sound of sharpening swords and cocked pistols added a layer of tension to the early evening. James did the same and made Thomas check his equipment as well. Flintlock pistols did not always fire as they were supposed to, and James was determined that Thomas’s would not lock up.  
It was some time after nine when the guards came through the trees and to the camp. Mr. Dufresne quickly got James.  
“Movement from the edge of the swamp but it’s bloody dark. I need more eyes,” the guard said. James nodded, motioning for Dufresne to follow them and for the other two guards to be at the ready in front of the warehouse. James and Dufresne followed the man through the woods and to its edge, where he pointed across the grassy field to the boarders of the swamp. James lifted a spyglass. With only the moonlight it was impossible to discern who was coming, but he made out several figures on foot, hunkered low. He handed the glass to Dufresne.  
“They’re acting too cautious,” observed the quartermaster. “Could they know we’re here?”  
James shook his head. “No. But Silver is too smart to risk making the same mistake twice. Let’s retreat back behind the warehouse. Keep the guards in place and make them think that’s all they have to worry about.”  
James returned to the camp and quietly gave out the news. They had cleared the ground earlier of everything except the dirt itself, making their movements as silent as possible. Now, they quietly readied themselves. Thomas stood beside James, pistol drawn. The minutes went by like hours. The figures James had watched were roughly a thousand yards away. He tried to imagine their progress, staring out through the trees. He quietly ordered lookouts in all directions. The three guards spread themselves out to each remaining side of the warehouse, guns at the ready. Finally, the first sounds of another party came not from the direction of the swamp but instead through the underbrush directly in front of them. A dozen or so men emerged from the shadows, followed by an equal number from the swamp. James held out his hand behind him, signaling the crew to remain where they were. The rogue men quickly moved in on the guards, who acted surprised. Two of them fired off shots, which was met with two shots from the invaders. James brought down his arm, forming a fist. The silence was shattered as dozens of his men rushed past him and out into the open, whooping and yelling. James flashed a glance to Thomas, who nodded he was ready. Then James put one foot forward and took off, Thomas hot on his heels.  
Gunshots and blazes of fire shot out into the night, providing the only illumination aside from the moon. By now the crew’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and they charged towards their traitorous shipmates. James knew some of them had been reluctant to attack their brothers, but he also knew that when push came to shove they would do what was necessary.  
Now, as he emptied the second pistol of its single shot and pulled out his sword he only hoped that the division between the crew had the numbers truly in his favor. He easily slashed through two men, looking for John Silver in all the madness. Beside him Thomas fought off another traitor without too much difficulty. James pushed them forward, towards the middle of the clearing and where the majority of the fighting was taking place. His senses became overwhelmed. There were crew everywhere, and some of them began teaming up to fight against their captain. James hadn’t expected such determination in their betrayal. It became too difficult to fight off two men at once and keep track of Thomas. He lost the blonde, desperately trying to keep two blades from touching him at once. His skill with a sword was strong, but James was forced to put muscles behind his attacks. He knocked the feet out from under one man, freeing him up to focus everything on the second, who came at him with an axe. His blade got caught under its curved tip. James angled his sword before the man could pull back and jerk it away. Blades locked, they struggled to shove each other back. Gritting his teeth, James finally pushed himself forward instead, forcing the other man’s arms up against his chest. James butted his forehead, causing him to lose his grip. James regained his blade and sliced through the other’s chest, whirling around to defend his back as soon as the deed was done. He glanced around frantically. Thomas was nowhere to be seen, and there was no time to look any longer. More rogue crew came at him.  
Thomas found himself up against the side of the crumbling warehouse, pressed into place by a hulking man with a sharply curved sickle up against his sword. Thomas ducked down, losing his sword but moving out of the other man’s grasp. He crawled under the man legs, pulling out his dagger and stabbing him in the back before he could turn around. He stabbed him again, twisting the blade. The man’s arm came around and smashed into Thomas’s face, but then the brute toppled over. Thomas grabbed his sword, feeling the hot sticky mess of blood spreading across his cheek.  
“Fire! Look out!”  
The shout caused Thomas to look up just as a torch landed on the edge of the roof. The dry timber started catching fire almost immediately. Thomas’s eyes went wide. Dufresne appeared beside him, fighting off a man struggling to stab him with a bayonet. Thomas took advantage of his momentary lag in fighting to run through the man. Dufresne took up his rifle. Thomas pointed to the roof.  
“Hoist me up there.”  
They made their way under the roof without trouble, but as soon as Dufresne bent down and Thomas set foot on his shoulders they were attacked again. Thomas caught a glimpse of James in the distance, a distance that looked terribly far away from where now stood. In the darkness he couldn’t tell who was winning the battle; everyone began to look the same. He felt the panic rising in him but he quelled it, focusing on trying to reach the torch. On the third try the two men were successful. Thomas, balanced on the quartermaster’s shoulders, used his sword to knock the torch off the roof and to the ground. With little other choice he used his sleeve to pat out the fire that had caught on the roof. Below him Dufresne cried out. The shoulders disappeared from under him and Thomas fell. Dufresne had been shot in the leg. Thomas scrambled to his feet.  
James fought and fought. Finally, he began to notice less rogue men attacking and more of his own men at his side. Then he spotted him. John Silver was at the edge of the woods, retreating slowly but surely, armed with two pistols. James sneered at him, shoving his way through the madness and breaking out into a run in Silver’s direction. He kept getting blocked and was forced to stand his ground and fight. One of Eleanor’s guards ended up beside him. James pointed desperately at the escaping Silver.  
“There. Quickly!”  
“I’ve got ‘em,” said the man. James turned to block another sword attack when suddenly he found a sword at his throat from behind, strong arms holding it in place on both ends. The voice of the same guard whispered into his ear.  
“I’ve got ‘em right here,” he said gruffly. “You imagine the glory the man who kills Captain Flint will receive? And the gold?”  
James felt the bite of the blade in his throat. He rocked his left arm upward, elbow coming into contact with the man’s face just hard enough to loosen his grip and cause him to stumble. James repeated the motion. This time the man lost his grip on one end of the sword, but as James pushed himself away he felt something else go into his side. The acute pain increased, slicing inside him, then was jerked out. James swung around blindly with his sword, hitting the man across the chest. The man jumped back to avoid anything more than a shallow cut as James stumbled. He tried to ignore the pain in his side, but the damage had been done. The man now wielded a smaller, second sword, at least four inches of its end covered in James’s blood. James went down to one knee.  
Thomas struggled to hold onto his senses. He felt disoriented as the fight raged on. He fought his way in the direction he’d last seen James. He‘d all but given up hope when the fighting seemed to lessen. As the gun smoke cleared he saw James, down on a knee and bleeding profusely, a menacing figure coming at him with a sword. His attack position was completely clear. Thomas’s heart leapt in his throat. He fought his way toward them, getting careless. A sharp sting came to his left arm, drawing blood. He fought off another rogue crew member, just barely managing to deliver a killing blow before his own head was cut off. He was growing tired. Still he struggled towards James, who was now gripping his side, legs folded under him and fighting off his assailant with one arm only.  
James caught each blow from the man’s sword with his own but quickly became fatigued. Finally the man kicked his sword out of his grip, leaving him defenseless. James forced himself to rise but the man kicked him in the chest, sending him flat on his back. James cried out, his side screaming in pain. The pirate was now grinning, victory in his grasp. As he moved close to James to deliver the killing blow James kicked him in the crotch and rolled. The man cried out, his sword coming down execution style in the spot James had just been in.  
“I’m gonna make you suffer, you son of a bitch,” the man seethed, pinning the captain down with a boot on his shoulder and driving the tip of his sword into it. James screamed.  
Thomas heard the scream and gathered what remained of his strength, hurling his body through the mess of remaining pirates to reach James. He saw the man leering over the fallen captain, sword in his shoulder. James’s eyes rolled back in his head. Thomas charged him, pulling out his dagger. He swung wildly at the man with his sword, surprising him and causing him to back up as he defended himself. Thomas struck high, then jabbed the dagger into the man’s side and twisted. The man cried out and dropped his sword. Thomas removed the dagger and stabbed him in the gut with his sword, ending the fight. He whirled back around.  
“James!”  
He fell to his knees beside James, who looked at him, blood coming from his mouth. James reached toward his side. Thomas pulled back his coat and saw the entry of the stab wound. Frantically he ripped off his sleeve and pushed it over the wound.  
“Help! I need help here goddamnit!”  
James’s eyes rolled back again. Thomas smacked his face.  
“Hey! I’m right here. Stay with me. Don’t pass out. James.”  
James coughed, struggling to speak. He opened his eyes and looked at Thomas.  
“You…did good. You…saved me again. Like you always do…”  
His eyes closed again. Thomas panicked, was about to yell again when help arrived in the form of Dufresne and two other men. James went limp. Thomas froze, looking at him.  
“Captain. Captain!” he yelled, bending down so that his ear touched James’s lips. He couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.  
“Come on, let’s get him out of here,” said someone. They hefted him up. As the last few shots rang out around him and men both dead and dying surrounded him, Thomas sat there, stunned. 

 

 

Epilogue 

James felt something lightly hit his face. Another minute later and the same something bounced off his cheek with a slight sting. He opened his eyes. All was blurry for a moment, then slowly the brown canvas of a tent flapping in the wind came into view. He was lying down, looking up. The thing hitting his face stopped.  
“There you are,” said a familiar voice. It was Hanson. He had been whittling a piece of twig, its shavings bouncing off James’s face.  
“I was trying to rouse you gently,” he said in merriment. James moved to sit up. The sudden motion caused shooting pain to course through his side, and he remembered his dire circumstances.  
“Easy, captain,” said Hanson, lifting a cup of water to his lips. “You’ve got quite the stab wound, but as far as I can tell it didn’t pierce any vital organs.”  
James looked at him, confused. Hanson smiled crookedly. “I was a physician in training before I came here. You needed urgent attention. But you’re going to be fine, long as both wounds heal.”  
James glanced at his bandaged shoulder, though that wound hurt far less than his side.  
“Thank you, Mr. Tenney.”  
“Don’t mention it. I’ll go tell the crew you’re going to be okay.”  
James very carefully sat up as Tenney left. He was on the beach, the tent erected along the same path they had used to enter the island’s interior and the warehouse. He was in a hammock. He stumbled out of it. It looked as though it was the middle of the afternoon. Storm clouds were gathering over the horizon, the first he’d seen in a long while. The dry spell would be over soon. He took a long drink of water and emerged onto the beach. Several crew members were there and eagerly greeted him, clapping him on the back and giving him well wishes. He asked about the gold. They told him Ms. Guthrie had gone ahead and allowed them all their shares but that there was still a lifetime’s worth left in the warehouse. What remained of Silver’s men were all imprisoned on the Seahawk, awaiting word from their captain. Silver himself had escaped. James cursed.  
Thomas appeared a few moments later. He calmly approached the captain amidst the other men. James saw a large cut on his slightly swollen cheek and a few on his arm but otherwise he appeared unharmed.  
“Glad you made it,” said Thomas as casually as he could. He offered his hand. James shook it. Their eyes met, and in the look they said everything that needed to be said.  
They met with Eleanor before the evening had set in on the balcony of the tavern.  
“How much gold is left?” asked James.  
“I’d say two and a half million, thereabouts,” she said. “Less than half of the original amount but not too shabby.”  
“Still, it’s not enough to gain England’s favor with this place.”  
“I know.”  
Her voice was edged with disappointment, eyes gazing out to sea and the coming storm.  
“It’s a start,” said Thomas. “It’s enough to build this place up even more. Hire legitimate workers, or more importantly help turn some pirates into legitimate workmen. If we can accomplish that at least, England will surely take notice. Not to mention whatever aid Miranda will surely give us from Boston.”  
They both looked at him. Thomas raised his eyebrow.  
“What?”  
Eleanor looked at James. “Is he always this perky and optimistic?”  
James grinned. “Usually, yes.”  
Thomas pretended to frown at both of them.  
“This place could use some optimism,” said Eleanor.  
“Perhaps we all could,” added James after a pause. “Perhaps it’s time to shelf the old tattered remains of what was and pull out a new book.”  
Thomas threw him a glance, eyes smiling. “Perhaps that’s the fate of ghosts, not to be forgotten by simply finding their place. Allowing the people they leave behind to become whoever it is they’re going to become.”  
“All right, you’re both ridiculous,” said Eleanor. “I’m going back inside. I’ll see you later.”  
They chuckled as she left, throwing them both one last confused glance. The clouds rolled closer to them, the distant sound of thunder now audible. The dancing show of lightning in the distance and the blue sky around its grey borders was beautiful to behold. James took in the scent of the salt air as the breeze picked up. He looked at his companion. Thomas seemed to carry the same look, the same mood. His eyes were soft but pondering. He didn’t look a day older than when James had first laid eyes on him all those years ago. For the first time in a long time James felt that happiness might again be within his grasp. His self hatred was not entirely gone but only a dim echo remained. Perhaps, he thought as they stood there, perhaps I can reforge myself into something new after all. Someone new, he thought, who was neither James McGraw nor James Flint but a combination of the two. The wind whipped around them. A dog barked in the distance. Thomas leaned over the railing and watched as the familiar figures of a father and his two sons played in the tidewater. Below them two women embraced in the street, smiling and gossiping. A man played a tune on his hurdy gurdy, thanking the people who dropped coin into his hat as they passed. They enjoyed the view a few moments longer, and then James turned, giving Thomas’s arm a gentle squeeze.  
“Come on, let’s go home,” he said. ***

 

 

Where a man can live, he can also live well.  
\--Marcus Aurelius


End file.
